He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; Old year, you shall not die ; Old He was full of joke and jest, To see him die, across the waste Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? His face is growing sharp and thin. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, To J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows And me this knowledge bolder made, 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother: his mute dust I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, 66 'Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will I will not say "God's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind; His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. |