MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Yes, the year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared ! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, — sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; A sound of woe ! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 27 Through woods and mountain-passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing ; Pray for this poor soul, Pray, - pray! And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers ; But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain ! There he stands, in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, - a king ! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice ! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Loveth her ever-soft voice, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, And the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, Pray do not mock me so ! Do not laugh at me! And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies, No mist nor stain ! MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 29 Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a noan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, Vex not his ghost ! Then comes, with an awsul roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind ! Howl! howl ! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away ! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! |