Death,

Who kneeling, with one arm about

her king,

Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting.

breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike

Into that wondrous track of dreams again!

But no two dreams are like.

Cold February loved, is dry: Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when

young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to

coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new,

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

62

THE DEATH OF THE OLD

YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move :
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste

His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro :
The cricket chirps: the light burns low :
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you :
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin :
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust I honour and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth.

I have not look'd upon you nigh,

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I :

I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you,

'Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.'

Let Grief be her own mistress still.

She loveth her own anguish deep

More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done to weep or not to weep.

I will not say, 'God's ordinance

Of Death is blown in every wind ;' For that is not a common chance

That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night.

Vain solace! Memory standing near

Cast down her eyes, and in her
throat

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear
Dropt on the letters as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth,

How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth?

Yet something I did wish to say:

For he too was a friend to me :

Both are my friends, and my true breast

Bleedeth for both; yet it may be

That only silence suiteth best.

Words weaker than your grief would make

Grief more. "Twere better I should

cease

Although myself could almost take

The place of him that sleeps in peace.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet;

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

ON A MOURNER.

I.

NATURE, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
To every land beneath the skies,
Counts nothing that she meets with
base,

But lives and loves in every place;

II.

Fills out the homely quickset-screens,
And makes the purple lilac ripe,
Steps from her airy hill, and greens
The swamp, where hums the dropping
snipe,

With moss and braided marish-pipe;

III.

And on thy heart a finger lays,

Saying, 'Beat quicker, for the time Is pleasant, and the woods and ways Are pleasant, and the beech and lime Put forth and feel a gladder clime.'

IV.

And murmurs of a deeper voice,

Going before to some far shrine, Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, Till all thy life one way incline With one wide Will that closes thine.