by Goodwyn Barmby.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.3 #55 (15 Jan 1848).
Oh Death, thou door of life, thou shadowy porch
Of new existence! once again thy portals
Open, and once again thy flickering torch
Guidest to the immortals.
The insect hours beneath thy chilly breath
Droop their gay wings, and close their tiny plumes;
The days are hearsed up in thy nightsome glooms;
The ghosts of years troop unto thee, O Death!
Sad waves the mournful, melancholy willow
Over the stream of Time's last sunken billow;
But ripple follows ripple, wave on wave,
And morn's young eyes from out the orient glow
When night's cowl darkest glooms upon its brow;
While spectral shades, sink into the deep grave,
Shimmering and melting like thin flakes of snow,
On the dark waters where the eddies rave—
Though all the buds of earth rise up to blow.
Dim porch of Time! amid God's shadowy wood,
Pillared with moonstone, indistinct and thin,
And branched around with a cloud-woven screen,
Slim as a mist-bower morning's sky within,
Impalpable as void, thou long hast stood;
While through thee bards have rather felt than seen,
As over thee a web-winged Instant hung
Bat-like and weird thy filmy mists among—
A fading shade! A spectre like a wind!
Failing in ebbing gust, and like a lung
Drawn inward, by a respiration blind
As though a fainting breezy look was flung
By that vague Ghost of the Old Year behind—
While by it passed, as two thoughts in the mind
Flit by each other; a bright spirit fair,
Like a fresh breath of odorous sun-filled air,
With hastening eyes, and front-blown tresses bright;
And with a gush of music rising higher,
And softly floating nigher and yet nigher,
The soul of the New Year arose in light.
Through its fond eyes so sweet in its bright hair,
I see the larches tassels waving fair,
The old oak sprouts of green, the pines red births,
The sycamores rich gummy growths so pale—
Its pulse has quickened all things of the earth's,
Made dew from snow and soft rain from the hail.
Through its fond eyes I see the bell of the vale
A bud and then a bloom, within that dell,
Where in that nutty copse I hear the tale
The blackbird yet shall pipe in mellow swell.
The pink buds of the briar I smell them blow:
I see the spotted cowslips gild the croft;
I hear the lark singing from heaven aloft;
The very bee-flower blooms, and bending low
I strive to catch the insect form, and lo!
A blossom lovely in my hand doth glow;
I see the dark moss greened upon the eaves;
I find the violet hid amid its leaves;
I scent the grasses in the new-mown hay;
I bind the golden sheaves;
My fancy rushes weaves,
Even as I sit and think on New Year's day.
I sit alone, far, far from thee O World!
Thou tyrant and thou slave! thou base deceiver
From nature and her ways, whose lip is curled
Even at thy mother's bosom! thou bereaver!
Both false and foul, of all pure sweets of life!
I sit alone, even at thy midst, in strife
With thee and thine. I would I were a bird
To fly away far in some copse of nut,
And there amid the dim still evening shut,
Where naught but God, and some fond traveller heard,
To pipe a mournful ditty,
Such as might move to pity
Of thee and thine, all whom thy woe had stirred.
Such song may sound, if not by me be sung—
God never yet hath lacked the thrushes tongue;
Yet while I sit alone on this New Year,
Like Crusoe notching at my tree of woe,
My thoughts like his, in this my isle so drear
Must back into my own lone bosom flow—
Reflect on time misspent, on time forgot,
On moments lost and hours I yet must gain,
And while I bless the white days of the lot,
Reckon the long years I have spent in vain;
So many sad hours I have lost in sleep—
So many dark hours have been sunk in sin—
How oft forgot my father's flock to keep—
How oft allowed the wolf to enter in;
So many acres have I left untilled
Of that fair glebe my father to me gave;
So many waggons have remained unfilled
Though ripe brown corn in many a field doth wave:
So many vain words have I falsely spoken;
So many vows of goodness have been broken;
So many prayers unsaid and hymns unsung;
So many restless Sabbaths of my folly;
So many falterings of the priestly tongue;
So many thorns in my un-berried holly;
So many thoughts to man, and earth's poor sod;
So few to heaven and God?
Bad as the world is! Black as is its shame!
Yet am not I to blame?
Judge not, O Man! but to thyself be true,
And the world's judgment shall be read in you.
Hail Hope! I love thy neighbourly abode,
And aye will journey thy frequented road,
For all glad thoughts are warbled from thy tongue,
Thou New Year's Ode!
Thou art for ever, ever, ever sung,
Even by the way-worn and the grey-beard young;
If I inspired by thee this New Year's Day
Have seen young white lambs in the pastures play—
Have seen the spring-tide flowers—
The bramble bloom, the daisies golden eye,
The silvery lady-smock and crow-foot gay,
The purple cuckoo buds and hare-bells shy,
The bright red pimpernel, and snowy may;
Have seen the spring-tide-bowers—
The ripening briar-hip and the ashes' keys,
The proud oak's acorns, and the fir's brown cones,
The willow leaves blithe dancing in the breeze;—
And heard the woodlands sweet with chirping tones
From song-birds' throats in a rich concert given
As poet praise to heaven!
If I inspired by thee have seen these bowers—
Have scented these fair flowers—
Have heard these birds their mellow music raise,
Through windows frosted o'er—
Though snow has blocked the door—
Say shall I sever Man from Nature's genial ways?
Oh no! oh never! hard as is man's dust
Of earthy being, he too has a spring
Which like the slender snow-drop through the crust
Of frozen earth and chill,
Shall gently rise a pure transparent thing,
And its spring life fulfil!
Then grace to thee New Year, and many a blessing,
Old friend with a New face!
Glorious may be the days of thy possessing
If we the moments grace.
The hours gone bye we never can restore—
Their golden sands are scattered on the floor;
The days now lost we but lament in vain—
Their ruddy suns will never flush again:
The past is dead! the present only lives;
The future but may be;
Never or Now! To-day alone God gives—
To-day requires of thee;
To-morrow never comes! This day shall be,
With a new life, the best New Year to thee.
1847.