THE OLD YEAR
The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day,
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark, or place,
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.
All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall—
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.
Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
MAYING; OR, A LOVE OF FLOWERS
Upon a day, a merry day,
When summer in her best,
Like Sunday belles, prepares for play,
And joins each merry guest,
A maid, as wild as is a bird
That never knew a cage,
Went out her parents' kine to herd,
And Jocky, as her page,
Must needs go join her merry toils;
A silly shepherd he,
And little thought the aching broils
That in his heart would be;
For he as yet knew nought of love,
And nought of love knew she;
Yet without learning love can move
The wildest to agree.
The wind, enamoured of the maid,
Around her drapery swims,
And moulds in luscious masquerade
Her lovely shape and limbs.
Smith's "Venus stealing Cupid's bow"
In marble hides as fine;
But hers were life and soul, whose glow
Makes meaner things divine.
In sooth she was a lovely toy—
A worship-moving thing
As ever brought the season joy,
Or beautified the Spring;
So sweet a thing no heart might hurt,
Gay as a butterfly;
Tho' Cupid chased 'twas half in sport—
He meant not to destroy.