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The Old Year.
By W. M. MacKeracher
The old year is dying,
Its last hour is hieing
Over the verge;
The night winds are plying,
And are mournfully sighing
Its funeral dirge.
And now, in its even,
While its spirit is riven
Through the bright zone,
Beyond the heaven
To whence it was given -
To the unknown.
Its sadness in ending
Like a cloud is descending
Over my soul,
And the thoughts that are pending
With the low winds are blending,
Helping their dole.
A year of existence
Has passed to the distance
Ne'er to return:
To the right was resistance,
From duty desistance,
Nor would I learn.
But duty neglected
And virtue rejected
We may amend;
Then why be dejected? -
So sorely affected?
Whence does it tend?
Is it that pleasure
In liberal measure
I have not known?
Ah! rapturous pleasure
In memory I treasure,
But - it is flown.
Opportunity wasted,
Though far we have passed it,
We may retrieve;
But beakers once tasted
Of bliss while they lasted
Bitterness leave.
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