Lines written for the thirty-first of December.
by Montgarner.
Originally published in The Casket, or Flowers of Literature, Wit and Sentiment (Atkinson & Alexander) vol.3 #3 (Mar 1828).
Be compos'd ev'ry toil, and each turbulent motion,
That encircles the heart in life's treacherous snares,
And the hour that invites to the calm of devotion,
Undisturb'd by regrets—unencumbered with cares.
How cheerless the late blooming face of creation!
Weary Time seems to pause in his rapid career;
Fatigued with the work of his own desolation,
Looks behind with a smile, on the grave of the year.
Hark! the wind whistles rudely—the shadows are closing,
That enwrap his broad path in the mantle of night;
While Pleasure's gay sons are in quiet reposing,
Undismay'd at the wrecks that have number'd his flight.
From you temple where Fashion's bright tapers are lighted,
Her votaries in crowds, deck'd with garlands appear;
And, as yet their warm hopes by no spectres affrighted,
Assemble to dance—round the grave of the year.
Oh, I hate the stale cup which the idlers have tasted,
When I think on the ills of life's comfortless day;
How the flow'rs of my childhood their verdure have wasted,
And the friends of my youth have been stolen away!
They think not how fruitless the warmest endeavour,
To recall the kind moments, neglected when near;
When the hours that oblivion has cancel'd for ever.
Are interr'd by her hand—in the grave of the year.
Since the last solemn reign of this day of reflection,
What throngs have relinquish'd life's perishing breath!
How many have shed their last tear of dejection,
And clos'd the dim eye in the darkness of death!
How many have their pilgrimage suddenly ended,
Beneath the low pall that envelopes their bier;
Or to death's lonesome valley have gently descended,
And made their cold bed—with the grave of the year!
'Tis the year that so late, its new beauties disclosing,
Rose bright on the happy, the careless and gay,
Who now on their pillow of dust are reposing,
Where the sod presses damp on their bosoms of clay.
Then talk not of bliss, while her smile is expiring,
Disappointment still drowns it in misery's tear;
Reflect, and be wise—for the day is retiring,
And to-morrow will dawn—on the grave of a year.
Yet awhile—and no seasons around us will flourish,
But Silence for each her dark mansions prepare;
Where beauty no longer her roses shall nourish,
Nor the lily o'erspread the wan cheek of despair.
But the eye shall with lustre unfading be brighten'd,
When it wakes to true bliss in yon orient sphere;
By sun-beams of splendour immortal enlighten'd,
Which no more shall go down—on the grave of a year.