In dull crescendo through the mournful air.

The new year now is welcomed noisily

With din and song and shout and clanging bell,

And all the glare and blare of fiery fun.

Sing high the welcome to the New Year's morn!

Le roi est mort. Vive, vive le roi! cry out,

And hail the new-born king of coming days.

[Pg 109]

Alas! the day is spent and eve draws nigh;

The king's first subject dies—for naught,

And wasted moments by the hundred score

Of past years rise like spectres grim

To warn, that these days may not idly glide away.

Oh, New Year, youth of promise fair!

What dost thou hold for me? An aching heart?

Or eyes burnt blind by unshed tears? Or stabs,

More keen because unseen?

Nay, nay, dear youth, I've had surfeit

Of sorrow's feast. The monarch dead

Did rule me with an iron hand. Be thou a friend,

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