The Dying Year

Voice of the Dying Year! I hear thy moan, Like some spent breaker of the distant sea, Chafing the fretted rock. Is this the end Of thy fresh morning music, gushing out In promises of hope? Have the bright flush Of Spring's young beauty, crown'd with budding flowers, The passion-vow of Summer, and the pledge Of faithful, fruitful Autumn, come to this? I see thy youngling moon go down the west, The midnight clock gives warning, and its stroke Must be thy death-knell. Is that quivering gasp The last sad utterance of thine agony? I see thy clay-cold fingers try to clasp Some prop-in vain!

And so thou art no more. No more! Thy rest is with oblivious years Beyond the flood. Yet when the trump shall sound, Blown by the strong archangel, thou shalt wake From the dim sleep of ages. When the tombs That lock their slumbering tenants cleave in twain, Thou shalt come forth. Yea, thou shalt rise again, And I shall look upon thee, when the dead Stand before God. But come not murmuring forth, Unwillingly, like Samuel's summon'd ghost, To daunt me at the judgment. No; be kind, Be pitiful, bear witness tenderly; And if thou hast a dread account for me, Go, dip thy dark scroll in redeeming blood.