Originally published in Knight's Penny Magazine (Charles Knight & Co.) series III, vol.1 #1 (1846).
Old Year, thou hast but an hour to stay,
Another hour, Old Year;
Shall we give that hour to feast and play,
And then lay thee on thy bier,
Or watch thy ending with holy fear?
Thou art hurrying away at thy wonted pace;
Wilt thou not stop to die?
Oh, stop, while we gaze upon thy face,
And catch thy parting sigh,
And whisper a last and a sad good-bye.
Wilt thou talk with me, Old Year, apart;
1 am growing old, like thee;
I will show thee all my secret heart,
And thou, my friend, shalt be free
To rail as thou wilt at mankind and me.
We have walk'd together three hundred days
And sixty-five—no more:
Thou art leaving the earth and its miry ways
For the sea without a shore:
Speak out, for our journey is well nigh o'er.
Thy son is coming, grey sire, full soon,
With his budget of weal and woe;
Now honest Old Year, let me beg a boon:
Instruct me, for thou dost know,
What can make men happy, and keep them so.
Not a word!—Look back from thy funeral car;
There is famine in thy rear,
And the sound of slaughter is heard from far,
And thy son is at hand, Old Year,
With no healing balm for a sick world's care.
He is gone—the crazy Old Year is gone;
In silence he has died.
In silence the jocund young Year is born;
He is floating on Time's tide:
Let us speak for a moment, New Year, aside.
He will not stay.—He has work for his hand;
He must build and he must till,
He must scurry about through sea and land,
He must rear and he must kill,
And affright the earth with his restless will.
They are not yet prophets, Old Year or New!
Great Spirit of the Past,
Teacher of Nations, let me view
Thy records dim and vast
By God's pure light, and hold thy lessons fast.