The bloodless stabber calls by night-
Each answers-" HERE AM I!"

7. For those the sculptor's marble bust,
The builder's marble piles,

The anthems pealing o'er their dust
Through long cathedral aisles.

8. For these the blossom-sprinkled turf.
That floods the lonely graves,
When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf,
In flowery, foaming waves.

9. Two paths lead upward from below,
And angels wait above,

Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of love.

10 Though from the Hero's bleeding breast
Her pulses Freedom drew;
Though the white lilies in her crest
Sprang from that scarlet dew—

11. While Valor's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,

Love walks unchallenged through the gate,
To sit beside the Thrōne!

O. W. HOLMES.

188. DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

1. PULL 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;

For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die;

You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

2. 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,
And the new year will take them away.

Old year, you must not go;

So long as you have been with us,

Such joy as you have seen with us,
shall not go.

Old year, you

3.. He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

4. 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 friends,

And the new year, blithe and bold, my friends,
Comes up to take his own.

5. How hard he breathes! o'er the snow

I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flitter 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.

6. 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 alōne,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friends,
And a new face at the door, my friends,

The new year's at the door.

ALFRED TENNYSON

1

189. THE CLOSING SCENE.

ITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet1 year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tann'd reaper in his hour of ease,

When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
2. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate' flails.

3. All sights were mellow'd' and all sounds subdued,
The hills seem'd further and the streams sang low,
As in a dream, the distant woodman hew'd
His winter log with many a muffled blow.

4. The embattled forests, erewhile arm'd in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

5. On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint;
And like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village church-vane seem'd to pale and faint.

6. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crewCrew thrice, and all was stiller than before

Růs' set, of a reddish-brown color.- Al tårn' ate, by turns; one after another.

Silent till some replying wanderer blew

His alien' horn, and then was heard no more.

7. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest,

Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest
By every light wind like a censer swung:

8. Where

sang the noisy masons of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year,

9. Where every bird which charm'd the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reapers of the rosy east,—

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn.

10. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail,

And croak'd the crow through all the dreamy gloom, Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

11. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night;
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,

.

Sail'd slowly by-pass'd noiseless out of sight.

the porch

12. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine sheds upon
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted' torch-

13. Amid all this, the center of the scene,

The white-hair'd matron, with monotonous tread,

'Alien (ål' yen), foreign; distant; belonging to another country.— 'Gårʼru loůs, talkative; prating continually.- Drům' ming, the pheas ant is a bird similar to the partridge; and the latter bird, at certain seasons of the year, makes a drumming noise, which is heard at a great distance. In poetry, the partridge is frequently called a pheasant.-In vert' ed, turned upside down.

Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a Fate, and watch'd the flying thread.

14. She had known sorrow, he had walk'd with her,
Oft supp'd, and broke with her the ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

15. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summon'd, and she gave her all;
And twice war bow'd to her his sable plume,-
Regave the swords to rust upon her wall.

16. Regave the swords-but not the hand that drew,
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.

17. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

18. At last the thread was snapp'd, her head was bow'd; Life droop'd the distaff through his hands serene, And loving neighbors smooth'd her careful shroud,While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.