Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/618

602 MATTIE GRIFFITH. [1850-GO. The music of our being's rushing stream Is growing sad and sadder day by day, And life is but a troubled fever-dream That soon must vanish from our soul's array ; But when this wild and fearful dream is past, The mounting spirits of the pure will rove Above the cloud, the whirlwind, and the blast, In the bright Eden of immortal love. Farewell, Old Year ! while sorrow dims our eyes, We bless thee for the lessons thou hast given ; Though thou hast filled earth's atmosphere with sighs, We trust that thou hast brought us near- er heaven ; Some stars that gleam along thy shadowy track Will shine upon our hearts with holy power. And oft our pilgrim-spirits will come back To muse and weep o'er this thy dying hour. Old Year, farewell ! the myriad flowers that thou Hast blighted will again in beauty bloom, And breathing millions thou hast caused to bow In death, will rise in triumph from the tomb. Not thus. Old Year, with thee. Thy life, now fled. No power of God or Nature will restore; The graves of years may not give up their dead, And thou wilt live, oh never, nevermore. Fai'ewell ! forever fare thee well, Old Year! The gentle Angel, missioned at thy birth To keep life's records through thy sojourn here, Has poised her shining wing and left the earth ; Oh may the words of love and mercy fall, Heaven's own bless'd music, on each err- ing soul, When on His burning throne the Judge of all Shall to our eyes unfold the awful scroll. LEAVE ME TO MYSELF TO-NIGHT. Go, leave me to myself to-night ! My smiles to-morrow shall be bright, But now I only ask to weep, Alone, alone, in silence deep. Go, go and join the wreathing dance. With floating step and joyous glance ; But leave, oh leave me here to weep O'er holy memory's guarded keep. Within my soul's unfathomed tide Are pearls and jewels I must hide. Deep from the rude and vulgar eyes Of Fashion's wild, gay votaries. I ask not sympathy, I ask But solitude for my dear task Of watching o'er those gems that gleam Deep in my soul's unfathomed stream. Ah ! tears are to my weary heart Like dew to flowers — then do not start, Nor deem me weak, that thus I weep In silence lone, and dark and deep. 'Tis but a few brief hours that I Would from the glad and joyous fly. And then, like them, I'll wear a brow Free from the tears that stain it now. But oh I to-niglit I needs must weep. And deeply all my senses steep la the sweet luxury of tears. Shed over the shrine of buried years.