285

THE CLOSING YEAR.

As by a mourner's sigh-and on yon cloud,

That floats so still and placidly through heaven,

The Spirits of the Seasons seem to stand,

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe,

In mournful cadences that come abroad

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,

A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year

Gone from the Earth for ever.

'Tis a time

For memory and for tears.

Within the deep

Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,

Whose tones are like the wizard 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

And left no shadow of their loveliness

On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,

And, bending mournfully above the pale

Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng

Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,

Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful—

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THE CLOSING YEAR.

And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man-and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous-and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er
The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield
Flashed in the light of mid-day-and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time

Fierce Spirit of the Glass and Scythe-what power

Can stay him in his silent course, or melt

His iron heart to pity! On, still on,

He presses, and for ever. The proud bird,

The condor of the Andes, that can soar

Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,

Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down

THE CLOSING YEAR.

To rest upon his mountain crag—but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,

And Night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep

O'er Earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow-Cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water-Fiery isles
Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns-Mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain-New Empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations—And the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,

And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres and pass away

To darkle in the trackless void-Yet Time,
Time the Tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not

Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,

Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

287

AMBITION.

BY JOHN NEAL.

I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,

And panted at the drum's deep roll; And held my breath, when-flaming high

I saw our starry banners fly,

As challenging the haughty sky,

They went like battle o'er my soul:

For I was so ambitious then,

I burned to be the slave-of men.

I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free;
And loved it like the conqu'ring flight
Of angels floating wide and bright

AMBITION.

Above the stars, above the fight

Where nations warred for liberty; And thought I heard the battle-cry Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sailed upon the dark-blue deep:

And shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh, my very soul would leap

To hear the gallant waters roaring;
For every sound and shape of strife
To me, was but the breath of life.

But, I am strangely altered now—

I love no more the bugle's voice— The rushing wave-the plunging prow― The mountain with his clouded browThe thunder when his blue skies bow,

And all the sons of God rejoice—

I love to dream of tears and sighs
And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes.

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