The changeful Year itself may read
Its lesson to the human heart!
How pass away its sunshine hours;
How does its loveliness depart!
From the first flower, which, timid, sad,
Rises amid the unkindly snow,
To the last rose, whose pale sweet blush
Has half forgot its early glow—
Do they not fade and fall?—the air
Forgetful of their summer spell,
Till Earth seems one vast sepulchre,
Inscribed with one sad word, "Farewell!"
And thus it is with life: how soon
Its early hopes decline and die!
And love, which lingers to the last,
Forgets its smile, but keeps its sigh.
Look back—twelve phantoms, drear and dim,
Have melted into silent space;
Twelve more come gradual in their room,
With eager step and hidden face.
Ah! trust them not;—the veil when raised
Will shew but faces ye have known;
Though still from every added round
Something of light and life is flown.
Those cheerful bells, how can they bid
A welcome to the new-born Year?
I think on what the past has been;
I cannot hope—I only fear.
Oh, vanity of mirth! those bells
What mockery the peal they gave!
Chime as for a departing soul—
Toll o'er the New Year as a grave.
L. E. L.
