RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, ́ Ring out the old, ring in the new ; Ring out a slowly dying cause And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE CLOSING YEAR. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling, 't is the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard's voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave | He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise, GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, A jollier year we shall not see. Old year, you shall not die ; How hard he breathes! over the snow Shake hands before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: His face is growing sharp and thin. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin : And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, ALFRED TENNYSON. THE APPROACH OF AGE. SONNET XII. WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time, TO-MORROW'S action! can that hoary wisdom, SAMUFI JOHNSON. GOING AND COMING. GOING the great round Sun, Dragging the captive Day Over behind the frowning hill, Over beyond the bay, "No light; so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now. . Another, more benign, Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended she had found That one, and twirled it round. "Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? Fair as she was, she never was so fair. O, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! Ye cannot enter now." So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, wept the sad Queen. ALFRED TENNYSON. OLD AGE AND DEATH. FROM "VERSES UPON HIS DIVINE POESY," THE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, EDMUND WALLER. THE ONE GRAY HAIR. THE wisest of the wise And love to hear them told; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one, At school-boy dishes? Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to sing, I never sat among The choir of Wisdom's song, But pretty lies loved I As much as any king, When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by. Alas! and I have not When one pert lady said, - I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your head!" Though neither Time nor Tide can bring Belief with wishes. TOO LATE. AUSTIN DOBSON. "Ah! si la jeunesse savait si la vieillesse pouvait !" THERE sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, That concern where we all must take stock, Though our vote has no hearing or weight; And the old man sang him an old, old song,Never sang voice so clear and strong That it could drown the old man's long, For he sang the song "Too late! too late!" 66 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — To give you time for preparation, And grant a kind reprieve, Well pleased the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, The willing muse shall tell : |