The Old Year.

The old year is dying,         Its last hour is hieing             Over the verge;         The night winds are plying,         And are mournfully sighing             Its funeral dirge.         And now, in its even,         While its spirit is riven             Through the bright zone,         Beyond the heaven         To whence it was given -             To the unknown.         Its sadness in ending         Like a cloud is descending             Over my soul,         And the thoughts that are pending         With the low winds are blending,             Helping their dole.         A year of existence         Has passed to the distance             Ne'er to return:         To the right was resistance,         From duty desistance,             Nor would I learn.         But duty neglected         And virtue rejected             We may amend;         Then why be dejected? -         So sorely affected?             Whence does it tend?         Is it that pleasure         In liberal measure             I have not known?         Ah! rapturous pleasure         In memory I treasure,             But - it is flown.         Opportunity wasted,         Though far we have passed it,             We may retrieve;         But beakers once tasted         Of bliss while they lasted             Bitterness leave.