Gone!
A Carol for New Year’s Eve.
I.
Toll, bells, within your airy heights; wail, winds, o’er moor and mere,
On this, the saddest of all nights, the last night of the year;
The last, long night when lamps are lit, like tapers ’round a bier,
When quiet folk at still hearths sit, and God seems very near.
II.
Tho’ vainly o’er his nameless woes, full many a mortal weeps,
Tho’ folded in the silent snows, full many a darling sleeps;
Tho’ pleasant eyes that saw it come, can never see it go,
Still, kindly hath this Old Year done its mission here below.
III.
For ev’ry cloud within its breast, a golden sunbeam bore,
And ev’ry joy was doubly bless’d by sorrows gone before;
And ev’ry sinless soul that laid mortality aside,—
Departing, left us in its stead an angel holy-eyed!
IV.
And on this last night of the year, this quiet, dreamy night,
The angel-messengers are here, a goodly, gracious sight!
With white robes shining thro’ the gloom, with fair, immortal faces,
They flit around the home-like room, and fill familiar places.
V.
Their hands are felt, where other hands were felt in days before,
Their heads are laid where other heads shall never nestle more!
Their rustling footsteps seem to mock the patt’ring feet, now clay,
And mingling with the ticking clock, their voices breathe alway
VI.
Of myriad blessings to be born within the coming year;
Of love and peace for those that mourn, and hope for those that fear;
Of darksome records cleansed for aye, from sorrow and from sin,
Of good seed sown, and (in their day), rich harvests gathered in.
VII.
Of ships that shall go down to sea, and leave a shining track,
And after cruising merrily, shall bring their treasures back;
And of those ships of rarer sort, Man’s noblest argosy,
Which back shall bring to safest port, the wealth of Faith’s fair Sea!
VIII.
—The old clock strikes upon the stair; Time’s tide is at the turn;
And here, and there, and everywhere, the New Year tapers burn.
The mimes and masquers fill the street; the bells clang o’er the river;
The horns are blown,—the drums are beat,—the Old Year’s gone forever!
New Year’s Eve
“Le Roi est mort!”
I.
The night blows chill,—come in, come in,
The lamps are lit, the fire burns clear;
While storm and sleet
On the homeless beat,
And Sorrow and Want, and Shame and Sin
Wander abroad in the winter street,—
’Tis here, ’tis here,
O Faith! O Hope! O Love! most dear,
We’ll keep the watch of the dying year,
—Come in, sweet friends, come in!
II.
There he lies, with death in his eyes,
This helpless monarch, this king uncrown’d,
Down on his painful pallet bound
By the grandest of mortal mysteries!
How old he looks in his fitful rest,
How hoar his head, his cheek how thin;
The sheet that covers his hollow breast
Is scarcely whiter than his skin;
And the wasted hands which the sceptre press’d
To drip with the mortal sweat, begin.
There he slumbers, while greedy Death
Eagerly watches his every breath:
Eagerly reckons the every start
Of his feeble pulse, of his flutt’ring heart.
O Faith! O Hope! O Charity!
Keep ye the vigil here with me!
III.
Strange hands are knocking at the door,
Strange sounds assail us, watchers four;
Strange footsteps rustle up the stair:
“Oh! ope to us!” (they cry without,)
“We faint with fear, we die with doubt,
The wind has blown our tapers out,
The King is dying, we must be there!”
IV.
And in, and in, they trooping pour,
A veiled and solemn company!
Did e’er ye see, ye watchers three,
So odd a group before?
They circle ’round the royal bed,
Some at his feet, some at his head;
On either hand
They weirdly stand,
By some strange summons gatheréd.
V.
They drop their veils, their brows are bare,
The King looks up and sees them there;
He trembles as he lies.
“Avaunt!” (his tones have lost their power,)
“Why come ye in this awful hour,
To stab me with your eyes?
Who are ye? Speak!—I know your guise!”
Lower the spirits bend, and lower,
Their answer lost in wails and sighs:
“Behold! O monarch! great and wise,
We are the aids that men despise,
The seeds that never came to flower,
Lost opportunities!”
And the winds besieging the upper tower
Down in a stormy echo shower:
“Lost opportunities!”
VI.
“And who are ye?” the Old Year wails,
To some who have not raised their veils,
But shrouded stand beside his bed:
“Do you, too, come to mock my course,
With vain regret, with wild remorse,
For thoughts and words and deeds long fled?”
“We come, O King!” the spirits black
Cry, as they toss their wimples back
And scorch him with their blazing eyes;
“Behold us as we come, O King!
Thy very heart of hearts to wring
With our unhallowed memories!
We are the shades who gather in
The crime, the shame, the woe, the sin,
Of thy unhappy reign.
The wreck of virtue and of truth,
The godless age, the blasted youth,
The loss of faith, the lack of ruth,
(Aye! tremble!—’tis in vain!)
The curse of War, the blood, the strife,
The shrieking babe, the moaning wife,
The mother weeping out her life,
The dead, in secret, slain,—
We lift them in our arms, O King!
And back to thee, this burden bring,
Again, again,
Bring back the past again!”
VII.
“Forbear!” in angel accents rings,
And thro’ the door a bright host springs
And scatters glory thro’ the room;
Their eyes are clear, their robes are white,
Their placid brows are wreathed with light,
Their lips are fresh with summer bloom.
“Make way!” they cry, “ye solemn crew!
Let peace and gladness filter through,
And drench our dying King!
We are the sunlight and the dew
Whose spell shall make the Old Year new;
Good thoughts, good works, good deeds and true,
Within our hands we bring!
Rise, Faith, and join thy voice with ours,
Come, Hope, and crown him with thy flowers,
Draw near, O gentle Charity!
In songs of purest solace let
Our dying liege his woes forget,
Sing with us, blessed Three!”
VIII.
Oh! strangely sweet the voices rise!
The old King lifts his tearful eyes,
The peace of Heaven is in his look,
Till, hidden in some distant nook,
The ancient clock
Which joys to mock
The airy flight of Time,—
Peals forth the midnight chime!
IX.
One, — two, — three!
A shadow dims the old King’s brow,
His hollow cheek is paler now,
He listens earnestly.
Four, — five, — six!
A shiver creeps adown his flesh,
The sweat of death breaks out afresh,
—The watchers trim the wicks.
Seven, — eight, — nine!
A something gurgles in his throat
And in his open eyes, afloat,
Death’s beacons ’gin to shine.
Ten, — eleven, — Twelve!
—The airy crowd, like dreams, have fled,
And with Hope’s roses on his head,
The poor Old Year lies cold and dead,
Upon the stroke of twelve!
(Taken from A Collection of Poems by Eleanor C. Donnelly)