 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
JANUARY.
“He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.”
Tennyson.
He will not see the dawn of day.”
Tennyson.
When, at the middle hour of night,
Died, with a moan, the poor Old Year,
A friar came, of orders white,
And stretched the corse upon a bier:
His scapulaire was thin and pale,
And fashioned were the beads of hail
That hung his neck around;
Wild spirits of the creaking wood
Of withered leaves had made his hood,
With silver edging bound.
Died, with a moan, the poor Old Year,
A friar came, of orders white,
And stretched the corse upon a bier:
His scapulaire was thin and pale,
And fashioned were the beads of hail
That hung his neck around;
Wild spirits of the creaking wood
Of withered leaves had made his hood,
With silver edging bound.
Saint Januarius had heard
The summons of a higher power,
To don his stole with ermine furred,
And chant at midnight's dreary hour.
Long looked he on the slumberer old,
With hand upon the temples cold,
To which a hoar-frost clung;
Then requiescat for the dead,
Baring with reverence his head,
The holy father sung.
The summons of a higher power,
To don his stole with ermine furred,
And chant at midnight's dreary hour.
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With hand upon the temples cold,
To which a hoar-frost clung;
Then requiescat for the dead,
Baring with reverence his head,
The holy father sung.
Rest, Traveller! the goal is gained!
In Shadeland rest for evermore;
Thy suns have set, thy moons have waned,
Thine hours of bloom and blight are o'er:
Dark was the twilight of thy days,
No golden beams dispersed the haze,
And Winter mocked thy sighs,
While falling in the snow-drift down—
And sent his Norland blast to drown,
With savage howl, thy cries.
In Shadeland rest for evermore;
Thy suns have set, thy moons have waned,
Thine hours of bloom and blight are o'er:
Dark was the twilight of thy days,
No golden beams dispersed the haze,
And Winter mocked thy sighs,
While falling in the snow-drift down—
And sent his Norland blast to drown,
With savage howl, thy cries.
Rest, Pilgrim, rest! the burthen grew
Too heavy for thy back to bear—
The glory that thy manhood knew
Gave place to darkness and despair:
The ticking note of falling snow
Was little like the murmur low
Of Summer's gentle rain;
And, oh! unlike her roses lost
Was the pale foliage by the frost
Traced on the rattling pane.
Too heavy for thy back to bear—
The glory that thy manhood knew
Gave place to darkness and despair:
The ticking note of falling snow
Was little like the murmur low
Of Summer's gentle rain;
And, oh! unlike her roses lost
Was the pale foliage by the frost
Traced on the rattling pane.
The pine, pyramidal of form,
Though earth be drear, the tempest loud,
Tints of the spring-time, green and warm,
Discloses through its frosty shroud;—
These, cheerily, a token gave
That May's green banner yet would wave,
Birds warble in the shade;
But cheered not thy old, withered heart,
For in Earth's history thy part
Again could not be played.
Though earth be drear, the tempest loud,
Tints of the spring-time, green and warm,
Discloses through its frosty shroud;—
These, cheerily, a token gave
That May's green banner yet would wave,
Birds warble in the shade;
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For in Earth's history thy part
Again could not be played.
Thine errand hath been well performed,
If nearer thou hast brought the time
When hearts by love celestial warmed
One creed maintain in every clime;
When forts are levelled with the dust,
Gun, blade, and lance, the prey of rust,
And war-flags darkly furled;
Drum, plume, and helm, are styled at last
The mildewed lumber of the Past—
Wrecks of a darkened world.
If nearer thou hast brought the time
When hearts by love celestial warmed
One creed maintain in every clime;
When forts are levelled with the dust,
Gun, blade, and lance, the prey of rust,
And war-flags darkly furled;
Drum, plume, and helm, are styled at last
The mildewed lumber of the Past—
Wrecks of a darkened world.
Rest, Traveller! the goal is won,
The cross of peace is on thy breast;
Thy task of good and ill is done,—
For evermore in Shadeland rest!
Thy morn of blossoms passed away,
Vanished thy blushing fruits, and gray
Became thy golden hair;
Why mourn for thee, Departed Year?
In cloud and darkness thy career
Closed, though it promised fair.
The cross of peace is on thy breast;
Thy task of good and ill is done,—
For evermore in Shadeland rest!
Thy morn of blossoms passed away,
Vanished thy blushing fruits, and gray
Became thy golden hair;
Why mourn for thee, Departed Year?
In cloud and darkness thy career
Closed, though it promised fair.
The robin's hymn was wild and sweet
Where harshly croaks the raven dark,
And icy flails the meadow beat
Where woke, at dawn, the lyric lark.
Ah! frozen is the fount that gushed
In music from the rock, and hushed
The runnel's murmur low;
Pale forms along the mountain side—
Mad cavalry of Winter!—ride
Through whirling clouds of snow.
Where harshly croaks the raven dark,
And icy flails the meadow beat
Where woke, at dawn, the lyric lark.
Ah! frozen is the fount that gushed
In music from the rock, and hushed
The runnel's murmur low;
Pale forms along the mountain side—
Mad cavalry of Winter!—ride
Through whirling clouds of snow.
300
Though newly-woven is thy pall,
By midnight ghost thy knell just rung,
Within a glittering palace hall
Enthroned is thy successor young—
Huzzas that hail the new-born king
Make discord in the lay I sing,
And much must be untold—
With pale hands clasped upon thy breast,
Rest, in the land of shadows, rest
Forever, Pilgrim old!
By midnight ghost thy knell just rung,
Within a glittering palace hall
Enthroned is thy successor young—
Huzzas that hail the new-born king
Make discord in the lay I sing,
And much must be untold—
With pale hands clasped upon thy breast,
Rest, in the land of shadows, rest
Forever, Pilgrim old!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |