Old year, you must not go ;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

3. He frothed his bumpers to the brim ;
A jolliër year we shall not see.
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

year, you

shall not die ;

Old
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

4. He was full of joke and jest ;

But all his merry quips are ō'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New year, blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.

5. How hard he breathes! o'er the snow

I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro :

The cricket chirps-the light burns low'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die!

Old year we'll dearly rue for you :
What is it we can do for you?—
Speak out before you die.

6. His face is growing sharp and thin ;-
Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes-tie up his chin-
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waitèth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

V.

187. THE CLOSING SCENE.

ITHIN this sober realm of leaflèss trees,

WT The russet year inhaled the dreamy air,

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,

When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
2. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

3. All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hill's seemed further and the streams sang lów;
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.

4. The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beated host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotèst blue.

5. On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint;
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 6. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew,—

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before,— Silent till some replying wanderer blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

7. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young: And where the oriole hung her swaying nest

By every light wind like a censer swung ; 8. Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year;

9. Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reapers of the rosy east,—

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn.

10. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail,

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

11. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

12. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch-
13. Amid all this, the center of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied her swift wheel, and with her joylèss mien
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.
14. She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust ;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

15. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume,—
Regave the swords to rust upon her wall.

16. Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew,
And struck for liberty the dying blow;

Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe.

17. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 18. At last the thread was snapped,—her head was bowed: Life drooped the distaff through his hands serene ; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

TO WORDS DEFINED, AND WORDS PRONOUNCED.

The figures refer to the pages where the words are to be found.