Sixty-Four and Sixty-Five

"Good bye, old friend!" and the bright young yearSprang through his palace door,And grasped the cold, unsteady handOf the dying sixty-four:Mournfully glittered the young king's tear,On the old king's locks of snow—"You are passing fast from the world, old year,Yet bless me ere you go.

Your eye is dim, and your hand is cold,Yet in the 'Auld lang syne'Your breast had a measure of life's red goldAs wide and deep as mine;And you know, old king, I only askOf the world a place to stand—Room for my head, room for my heart,Room for the sweep of my hand.

"Yet I kneel with reverence at your feet,For I feel that a life well cloneTowers far, in majesty complete,O'er the brightest of lives begun:I kneel at your feet, old year, I kneel,Bent by my strength of pride;I am proud, most proud, of the power to feelHonor for talents tried;

"Honor for lives that have proved their strengthHonor for aims attained—Many can boast of an arrow's length,Few of a target gained:You are passing fast from the world, old year,Your pulse is ebbing low;Yet look on the young life kneeling here,And bless me ere you go."

The old year smiled yet mournfully,For his lips we.re growing cold;He said:"I bless thee—thou shalt beRevered when thou art old—And this I deem the proudest thingExistence can bestow;The pearls that crown earth's greatest kingAre honored locks of snow.

"I do bless thee, young year—thy glanceShines to my failing sightLike flashing steel of a fearless lance,Uplifted for the right;Thy hand is warm, and firm, and strong,And the bright head bowing hereWill never bend before the wrong—I do bless thee, young year!"