The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Shake hands, before you die. Old Year, we'll dearly rue for you: Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, A new face at the door. NEW YEAR'S DAY. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. WHILE the bald trees stretch forth their long lank arms, And starving birds peck nigh the reeky farms: Or coughing shiver in the pervious bield, And nought more gladsome in the hedge is seen, At such a time, the ancient year goes by To join its parents in eternity At such a time the merry year is born, Like the bright berry from the naked thorn. NEW YEAR'S DAY. The bells ring out; the hoary steeple rocks-- The year departs, a blessing on its head, Dead? What is that? A word to joy unknown, They come, they go, they change, they do not die. And are the thoughts, that ever more are fleeing, The moments that make up our being's being, The silent workings of unconscious love, Or the dull hate which clings and will not move, In the dark caverns of the gloomy heart, The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old Year, we'll dearly rue for you: Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, A new face at the door. NEW YEAR'S DAY. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. WHILE the bald trees stretch forth their long lauk arms, And starving birds peck nigh the reeky farms: Or coughing shiver in the pervious bield, And nought more gladsome in the hedge is seen, At such a time, the ancient year goes by To join its parents in eternity At such a time the merry year is born, Like the bright berry from the naked thorn. NEW YEAR'S DAY. The bells ring out; the hoary steeple rocks--- The year departs, a blessing on its head, Dead? What is that? A word to joy unknown, Is with us yet, another and the same. And are the thoughts, that ever more are fleeing, The moments that make up our being's being, The silent workings of unconscious love, Or the dull hate which clings and will not move, min of Pems pertaining to the Christmas season, which empretends the entire mage of English Steratur, from its earliest dawn to the end of the art half of the nineteenth century, cannot have a more appropriate close than the following poem, which is extracted from Tennyson's “In Memoriam," one of the most noble and divine works this later age has given birth to. And, in the hope that all who peruse it may respond to the Christian and prophetic spirit which pervades every line, the Editor of this collection here concludes his pleasant labours, |