POETRY.
THE OLD YEAR.
On, for the year dying in the dark December weather, The year that we loved so, the year that was so fair, Can we not save it, ere it passes altogether, The year that is dying in the misty, winter air P Other years will come to us, other Springs will find us, March will bring its daffodils, with crowns of yellow gold ; But none like the flowers of the year we leave behind us, The year that is dying, in the sleet and in the cold.
May will bring the chestnut, and June the crimson roses, And scented cowslip meadows, and lilies in the dyke; But nothing like the beauty of the year that closes, The year whose knell we wait for, whose last hour soon shall strike.
Though the New Year arise, and the trees will bud and blossom, And the swallow and the swift will bring the summer back, And Earth call forth her children to play upon her bosom, It will not give us comfort for the year whose joys we lack.
Oh, Old Year ! we have loved you, with your Summer glory, And your Autumn full of splendour, and the freshness of your Spring, And as we watch you nearing the end of all your story, We wonder and we dream what the New-born Year shall bring.
And though the New Year's days may be full of light and colour, Though the birds sing sweetly, and the flowers bloom as of old, There will be something lost, which will make the sunlight duller, For the memory of the year whose tale will have been told.
CLARA. GRANT DUFF.
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