"Would I were dead
And vexed no more," the Old Year said;
"In vain may the preacher pray and warn,
The tinkling cymbals in your ears
Turn every gracious word to scorn;
Ye care not for the orphan's tears,
Your sides are fed and your bodies clad;
Is there anything heaven itself could add?"
And then he sighed as one who died
With a great wish unsatisfied;
Around him like a wintry sea
Whose waves were nations, surged the world,
Stormy, unstable, constantly
Upheaved to be again down-hurled.
Here struggled some for freedom; here
Oppression rode in high career.
In hot debate
Men wrestled while the hours waxed late,
Contending with the watchful zeal
Of gladiators trained to die;
Yet not for life, nor country s weal,
But that their names might hang on high
As men who loved themselves, indeed,
And robbed the state to satisfy their need.
97
