"SIC ITUR."
The Old Year flits, the New Year comes,
And, through such severance, man contrives
To parcel out in little sums
The little measurements of lives.
We feign the one a different year,
Outworn, by solemn bells outrung—
The other, foundling of our sphere,
As radiant, innocent, and young.
Farewell! we cry, to Ninety-Two,
Its lapses and encompassings,
We bid them all a fond adieu,
And fix our gaze on fresher things;
What has not been we dream will be,
The wounds will heal, the flaws will mend,
And hopes be born of Ninety-Three
That older, cherished hopes transcend.
It is not thus; Time mocks at pause,
In march continual onward goes;
Th' unfailing progress of his laws,
No respite nor effacement knows;
This year is but the force of last,
Not something new to mortal ken;
Heredity's enchainment vast
Enthrals the moments as the men.
Yet welcome still, our childish trust,
Which breathes a truth that Science mars;
Our ladder, based upon the dust,
Mounts ever nearer steadfast stars;
And, though the rungs be still the same,
The glimpses, as we strive to rise,
Are, 'spite our mists of sin and shame,
More closely neighbouring the skies.