Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice, nor sound is there, No other challenge breaks the air, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 21 Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers ;- There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,--"Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; No mist or stain! Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, "Vex not his ghost!" MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The storm-wind! 23 Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away! Christe, eleyson! L'ENVOI. YE voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost, Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Of the vast plain where Death encamps! |