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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:
What is it we can do 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,
And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.



WHILE the bald trees stretch forth their long lank arins,

And starving birds peck nigh the recky farms:
While houseless cattle paw the yellow field,

Or coughing shiver in the pervious bield,

And nought more gladsome in the hedge is seen,
Than the dark holly's grimly glistening green-

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.


The bells ring out; the hoary steeple rocks--
Hark! the long story of a score of clocks;
For, once a year, the village clocks agree,
E'en clocks unite to sound the hour of glee-
And every cottage has a light awake,
Unusual stars long flicker o'er the lake.
The moon on high, if any moon be there,
May peep, or wink, no mortal now will care,
For 't is the season, when the nights are long,
There's time, e'er morn, for each to sing his song.

The year departs, a blessing on its head,
We mourn not for it, for it is not dead :

Dead? What is that? A word to joy unknown,
Which love abhors, and faith will never own.
A word, whose meaning sense could never find,
That has no truth in matter, nor in mind.
The passing breezes gone as soon as felt,
The flakes of snow that in the soft air melt,
The wave that whitening curls its frothy crest,
And falls to sleep upon its mother's breast.
The smile that sinks into a maiden's eye,
They come, they go, they change, they do not die.
So the Old year-that fond and formal name,

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,

In the dark caverns of the gloomy heart,
The fancies wild and horrible, which start

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Tha Mlatie of Pens pertaining the Christmas season, which rssprekend, the entire of English literature, from its earliest down to the -ne of the most half of the nineteenth century, cannot have a more appropriate core than the following poem, which is extracted from Tennyson's "In Memorian," 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,

RING out wild bells to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light : The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

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