The Dying Year — Lydia Huntley Sigourney

Voice of the Dying Year! I hear thy moan,Like some spent breaker of the distant sea,Chafing the fretted rock. Is this the endOf thy fresh morning music, gushing outIn promises of hope? Have the bright flushOf Spring's young beauty, crown'd with budding flowers,The passion-vow of Summer, and the pledgeOf faithful, fruitful Autumn, come to this?I see thy youngling moon go down the west,The midnight clock gives warning, and its strokeMust be thy death-knell. Is that quivering gaspThe last sad utterance of thine agony?I see thy clay-cold fingers try to claspSome prop-in vain!

And so thou art no more.No more! Thy rest is with oblivious yearsBeyond the flood. Yet when the trump shall sound,Blown by the strong archangel, thou shalt wakeFrom the dim sleep of ages. When the tombsThat lock their slumbering tenants cleave in twain,Thou shalt come forth. Yea, thou shalt rise again,And I shall look upon thee, when the deadStand before God. But come not murmuring forth,Unwillingly, like Samuel's summon'd ghost,

To daunt me at the judgment. No; be kind,Be pitiful, bear witness tenderly;And if thou hast a dread account for me,Go, dip thy dark scroll in redeeming blood.