THE MASQUE OF THE YEAR.
(Time is discovered seated in the midst of a bevy of maidens, each of whom represents a month.)
TIME.
Behold me, Time, inexorable Time,
Twin brother of Death. Like him all hearts I tame.
As babes with baubles play, so I with fame.
I weigh all deeds, judge every poet’s rhyme,
Sift heroes, smile at life’s quaint pantomime,
Put down the present great, and oft reclaim
From sad oblivion some forgotten name,
Uplifting it to heights that are sublime.
I sit, amid the months, upon my throne,
Waiting to greet the New Year drawing nigh,
And though it brings a destiny unknown,
Naught need ye fear, since God is in the sky.
Fate is God’s choice; be therefore of good cheer.
Let mirth and song welcome each new crowned year.
JANUARY.
Far have I come, out of darkness, from chaos,
The land of the future, dread realm unknown,
Out of silence, alone.
I have trodden the ice-fields of drear Baccalaos,
Heard the grinding of bergs in the seas of the north
As the gale urged them forth,
And at midday have looked on the sun’s feeble glory
With a smile of disdain, for the warmth that he felt
Ne’er my bosom could melt.
Death and stillness are mine, and, save wolves on a foray,
All is still, all is shrouded, all Nature’s asleep,
Under snow hidden deep.
I am the ruler of uncreate chaos,
Queen of absolute void, which life comes not anear—
First month of the year.
FEBRUARY.
I am the month of beginnings. I bear
In my bosom the seed of all changes to come.
As yet I am dumb,
But Hope has been born in the breast of Despair.
The pine boughs stir under their burden of snow,
As though promise they know,
Yet the sun shines no stronger, there’s naught that foretells
The coming of summer. No song of a bird
In the woodland is heard,
Not a sound, save the stroke of the axe, as it fells
Some wood king, whose form sinks beneath the keen blade,
With a crash, through the glade;
Yet the spirit of Nature’s awake, and the air
Thrills with love. I soothe grief with my wonderful balm,
Second month that I am.
MARCH.
I am the month of unrest and of yearning,
Of wild and untamable hatred and love.
I glide through the grove,
Calling on Summer, so slow in returning.
I seek for the fruit, bud, leaf, blossom and all.
When they heed not my call,
The winds I unleash, which, like hounds on the scent,
Give voice round the farmsteads, and course o’er the moors,
With a hundred detours,
Till they leap on the forests, whose branches are rent.
I heap up the snowdrifts, bind firmer the streams,
And defy the sun’s beams.
My heart throbs with hate, and all tenderness spurning,
With winter again I span heaven’s blue arch.
I am passionate March.