University of Virginia Library

MEETING OF THE YEARS.

I saw them meet the Old Year, and the New,
In ærial pomp, beside my wild wood home.
Night lay upon the forest, cold and still,
Like hope upon my pathway; and the moon
Pour'd from her silver bows, a flood of light
Upon earth's ermine robe of drifted snow,
O'er which innumerable diamonds flash'd
Dazzling my weary eyes with piercing gleams,
Quivering and shifting, even amid the gloom
Of the dark foliage of the noble pines,
That border the clear hill-side. Lo! a sound
Of airy pinions passing to and fro,
Amongst the swaying branches, while the trees
Majestically bow'd their plumy heads
Unto the airy ministers of heaven,
Which blend their voices in mysterious hymn
Of liquid melody, which fills the night
With wordless worship to the living God.
A worship more appropriate and pure,
Than all the studied harmony of words
That man has mind to frame, or voice to chant.—
Like ice drops flashing in the morning beams,
A group of glorious creatures swept along.
First one of lofty and majestic mien,
And strange and dreamy beauty, which the eye
Could dwell upon for ever, and not tire.
Her foot upon the snow-drift left no print,
And waked no echo. Silently, and swift
She mov'd like some bright dream, all unadorn'd
Save her own heavenly beauty. In one hand
She held the seal of Fate, and key to heaven;
The other grasp'd a sceptre of strange power,
Which changes with a touch all things on earth,
And writes on all life's treasures—Vanity!
I knew the silent angel, she is Time,
The eldest daughter of Eternity.
Immortal youth, and chastity are hers;
Though all mankind with ardent sighs and tears
Pour out their prayers before her, every one
Beseeching her to stay, and be his own,
She passes on unheeding. At her side
With measur'd solemn pace, and weary air
A fair etherial creature held her way.
Her feet were stain'd with blood, her locks were dark,
And thickly gemm'd with tears, and deep sad sighs
Were breathing round, her like the atmosphere
Which noxious nightshade gathers round her bower.—
Her ample robe, which had been purely white
Was written o'er with myriad tales, of sin,
Of dark deceit, of sufferings, and of wo;
While shining here and there, like radiant gems
Amid the dross, and darkness of the mine,
Good deeds, and generous acts were chronicled.
And penitential tears were sprinkled o'er,
In beautiful relief to those dark lines
Which told of shame, and wrong. She bore a vase
Fill'd with sweet faded flowers, which she had torn
From many a bleeding stem.
Hark! a deep peal
Burst on the dreaming midnight, and a sigh
Heav'd the dark bosom of the solemn wood,
And died away. Then came a rushing sound,—
And a young regal spirit was display'd
In robes of glistening white. A radiant smile
Play'd o'er her features, like a morning beam
Upon the face of May. Her right hand bore
A dewy cluster of the richest balm
That ever grew in Eden.—But a sword
Keen as the quivering lightning grac'd her left:
Sister! she cried, as the Old Year advanc'd,
God calls thee to thy rest. I come to bring
Healing unto the wounds that thou hast made,
And to inflict others, as dread and deep.
They join'd their hands a moment, while the winds
Paus'd on their moonlight pinions, and it seem'd
That nature held her breath. The twelfth deep chime
Of midnight sounded, and the clasping hands
Were sever'd, and for ever. Then young Hope
Came with her magic smile, and golden curls,
Gem'd with sweet dewy buds, from wild rose-trees;
Her silver lute was perfectly in tune,
And warbled symphony to all her songs
Of soul-enthralling promise. Gracefully
She led the welcome New Year. But I saw
Time walking on beside them, unperceiv'd
By those who revel in their joyousness.
The Old Year dropp'd the pale flowers from her vase,
And drew her robe of record round her form,
And the pavilion of Eternity
Enclos'd her in its drapery of mist,
And she was gone, for ever.—
Then remained
Of all the pageant of that midnight chime
One pensive angel, with bright fragrant tears
Upon her smiling beauty.
Carefully
She gather'd from the snow those faded flowers,
Wreath'd them in garlands, for her breast and brow,
And sung such sweet sad legends of their bloom;
While with her words their incense breath'd its wealth,
That from my heart the pent up waters gush'd,
And flow'd in soothing over all the wound
That ached within my bosom.
Memory!
How kind thou art; thus to preserve the flowers
Which years break from the branches of our joy,
And scatter on the frozen drift, to die;—
And then to sooth the spirit with thy hymn
When hope forsakes us, for the glad young hearts
That hail the happy New Year, and we sit
Alone with thee.