Weary and sad I sit alone,
The storm-god whistles shrill and high,
And piles of sombre clouds are thrown
O'er the blue curtains of the sky.

Mournful I sit, for one by one
Time's golden sands are ebbing fast;
Whispering in low sepulchral tones,
The next, perchance, may be the last.

'Tis midnight's deep and solemn hour,
When visionary forms appear,
And shed their strange, mysterious power
O'er the departure of the year.

The charnel house is opened wide,
And thither's borne with brief adieu,
And slumbering eyes laid beside
Eighteen hundred fifty-two.

Now memory wakes her silent string,
And holds her umpire in the brain;
And brings as she alone can bring,
The image of the past again.

Her golden key, with using bright,
Unlocks the chambers of the soul,
And holds to reason's steady light
The secret records of her scroll.

Back, back she sails, down time's dark stream,
To childhood's bright and sunny hours;
And paints again her fairy dream,
Her sports, her fancies, and her flowers.

Touched by her wand, the sleeping dead
Spring up to active life again:
And in the busy pathway tread,
Mingling in our joy and pain.

She points where many a hope sprang bright,
And plum'd a while her pinions gay:
Then sank in disappointment's night,
And each fair promise died away.

And as I scan her records of the past,
And in succession all their deeds appear,
There's none o'er which so deep a shade is cast
As thine, thou just expiring year.

Thy spring was green, and bright, and gay,
And bloom'd as fair as Eden's bow'rs.
But mil-dew in her sunbeams lay,
And scorpions lurk'd among the flowers.

For when all perfumed seemed thy breath,
And all thy aspect sweet and mild,
It brought contagion, blight and death,
And from us bore a lovely child,

Then Summer came, with ardent glow,--
With burning guns and sultry skies,
Her mantle over Spring to throw,--
Of richer tints and deeper dyes.

Then often, with her fairy train,
Came gnawing Grief and wasting Care,
Sickness, Anxiety and Pain,
Mingling in sad confusion there,

Then Autumn came, with sober mien,
For summer days are always brief;--
And in her pathway soon were seen
The wither'd flow'r, the yellow leaf.

But ere her hollow, chilly breeze,
Scarce spake of nature's sad decay,
Or ting'd the foliage pa the trees,
A gentle brother pass'd away.

Sweet was his passage to the tomb,
Reclining on a Saviour's breast;
He heard the welcome--"Child, come home,"
And enter'd on the promis'd rest.

Then Winter came, with icy breath,
His hoarse winds whistling shrill and loud,
And quickly o'er the frozen earth,
He lightly spread his snowy shroud.

And sorrow, like that snowy pall,
Seemed spread o'er all my prospects bright,
And Health, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace,
Seem verging all to death's dark night.

But hark! I hear a cheering voice,--
And see--those pale, cold lips still move.
Mortal, shrink not; in God rejoice!
He is Wisdom, Power and Love.

'Tis he ordains the rolling year;--
Seasons and changes are his own;
Then, mortal, live in God's own fear;--
One struggle, and the year was gone,

But Peace had stolen o'er my breast;
And as I gazed I shed a tear,--
And grateful for the last behest,
I bless'd the just departed year.