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How God the Eternal Son
Came to undo what we had done,
How God the Paraclete,
Who in the chaste womb formed the Babe so sweet,
In power and glory came, the birth to aid and greet.
Wake me, that I the twelvemonth long
May bear the song
About with me in the world's throng;
That treasured joys of Christmas tide
May with mine hour of gloom abide ;
Deep in my heart, when I would sing;
Each of the twelve good days
Its earnest yield of duteous love and praise,
Ensuring happy months, and hallowing common ways.
Wake me again, my mother dear,
That I may hear
The peal of the departing year.
O well I love, the step of Time
Should move to that familiar chime :
Fair fall the tones that steep
The Old Year in the dews of sleep,
The New guide softly in
With hopes to sweet sad memorieş akin!
Long may that soothing cadence ear, heart, conscience win.
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
ORPHAN hours, the year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry hours smile instead,
For the year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Solemn hours! wait aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the year:-be calm and mild,
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps-but, O, ye hours,
Follow with May's fairest flowers.
FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly, and speak low,
Old year, you must not die;
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true, true love,
So long as you have been with us
He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you.
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New year blithe and bold, my friend,
How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.