How weary he looked from his pilgrimage now!

The phantoms of Passion, of Hope and Despair,

With dark, waving plumage, encircled him there;

The Months stood around, and the bright dancing Hours

On spirit-wings floated, like birds among flowers.

A voice sweet as music now smote on my ear:

‘Go forth in thy beauty, thou unspotted Year!

The old Year hath died ‘mid rejoicings and mirth,

That rocked the stern heart of the rugged old Earth!

The midnight is passing; away to thy car!