MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes They are chanting solemn masses, And the hooded clouds, like friars, But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain! There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king,—a king! Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,- Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, "Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies ; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! |