The Old Year and the New.

Low at my feet there lies to-night         A crushed and withered rose;     Within its heart of fading red         No crimson fire glows;     For o'er its leaves the frost of death         Steals like an icy breath;     And soon 't will vanish from my sight,         A thing of gloom and death.     Ah! beauteous flower, once thou wert         My pleasure and my pride;     And now when thou art old and worn         I will not turn aside;     But gently o'er thy faded leaves         I'll shed one kindly tear;     That thou wilt know, though dead and gone,         To memory thou art dear.     Before my gaze there lies to-night         A rose-bud fresh and fair;     And like the breath of dewy morn         Its fragrance scents the air.     This fragile flower I fain would pluck         With hand most kind yet bold;     And watch its petals day by day         Their shining wealth unfold.     And soon 'twill be my very own         To keep forevermore:     This flower that bloomed for me alone         Upon a heavenly shore.     God grant my hands may guard it well         And keep it pure and fair;     For angel hands have gathered it         And placed it in my care.     Then fare thee well, thou dying year,         Thou art my withered rose;     And on the stem where once thou wert,         Another flower grows;     Yet fear thee not, when thou are dead,         To thee I'll still be true;     And 'mid the joys of other years         I still will think of you.