I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 19 MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing okl, The leaves are falling, falling, Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,— Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,- And now the sweet day is dead; Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest For there shall come a mightier blast, Kyrie, eleyson! [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion; "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.”] |