WORLD OF FASHION.
MEETING OF THE YEARS.
BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
I SAW them meet, the old year and the new
In ærial pomp beside my wild wood home.
Night lay upon the forest, cold and still,
Like hope upon my pathway. The bright moon
Pour'd from her silver bowl a flood of light
Upon earth's ermine robe of drifted snow,
O'er which innumerable diamonds flash'd,
Dazzling my weary eye with piercing gleams,
Shifting and quivering, even amid the gloom
Of the dark foliage of the noble pines
That border the bright hill-side. Lo! a sound
Of spirit pinions passing to and fro,
Among the moving branches, while the trees
Majestically bow'd their plumy heads
Unto the airy ministers of heaven,
Whose voices blend in a mysterious hymn
Of liquid melody, that fills the night
With wordless worship to the living God;
Worship far more appropriate and pure
Than all the studied harmony of words
That man has mind to frame, or voice to chaunt.
Flashing like ice-drops in the morning beam,
A group of glorious creatures swept along.
First one of lofty and majestic mien,
And strange and dreamy beauty, which the eye
Could gaze upon forever and not tire.
Her foot upon the snow-drift left no print
And waked no echo, silently and swift
She moved, like a bright dream, all unadorn'd
Save her own heavenly beauty. In one hand
She held the seal of fate and key to heaven;
The other grasp'd a sceptre of strange power,
The touch of which changes all things on earth,
And writes on all life's glories Vanity.
I knew the silent angel, she is Time
The eldest daughter of Eternity,
Immortal youth and chastity are hers ;
Though all mankind with ardent sighs and tears
Pour out their prayers before her, every one
Beseeching her to stay and be his own,
She passes on unheeding. At her side
With measured solemn pace and weary air
A fair etherial creature held her way,
Her feet were stain'd with blood, and her dark locks
Were thickly gemm'd with tears, and deep sad sighs
Were breathing round her like the atmosphere
Which the green nightshade gathers round its bower.
Her ample robe which had been purely white
Was written o'er with myriad tales of sin,
And dark deceit, and suffering, and woe.
While glittering here and there like radiant gems
Amid the dross and blackness of the mine
Worthy and generous deeds were chronicled,
And penitential tears were sprinkled o'er
In beautiful relief to the dark lines
That spake of shame, and wrong. She bore a vase
Fill'd with sweet faded flowers which she had torn
From many a bleeding stem. Hark! A deep peal
Startled the dreaming midnight, and a sigh
Heaved the dark bosoms of the solemn wood,
And died in cold dark silence. Lo! a sound,
And a young regal spirit was display'd
In robes of glistening white. A radiant smile
Play'd o'er her features, like the morning beam
Upon the robe of May. Her right hand bore
A dewy cluster of the richest balm
That ever grew on Gilead. But a sword,
Keen as the quivering lightning , graced her left.
64"Sister!" she cried, as the old year advanced,
"God calls thee to thy rest. I come to bring
Healing unto the wounds that thou hast made,
And to inflict others as dread and deep."
They joined their hands a moment, while the winds
Paused on their moonlight pinions. Then young Hope
Came with her magic smile, and golden curls,
Gemm'd with sweet dewy buds from the wild rose ;
Her silver lute was perfectly in tune,
And warbled symphony to all her songs
Of soul enthralling promise. Gracefully
She led the welcome New Year. But I saw
Time walking still beside them, unperceived
By those who revel'd in their joyousness.
The old year dropp'd the pale flowers from her grasp;
Gather'd her robe of record round her form,
And the pavilion of eternity
Enclosed her in its misty drapery,
And she was gone forever. Then remained
Of all the pageant of that midnight chime
One pensive angel, with bright fragrant tears
Upon her smiling beauty. Carefully
She gather'd from the snow those scatter'd flowers,
Wreath'd them in garlands for her breast and brow,
And sung such sweet sad legends of their bloom,
Mingling their incense with her tuneful song,
That the pent waters of my swoln heart gushed
And flowed in cooling drops o'er all the wounds
That burned within my bosom. Memory!
How kind thou art, thus to preserve life's flowers,
And soothe the mourning spirit with thy hymn
When years have past, and Hope sped gaily by
To dwell with young glad hearts.
RACHEL.
I CANNOT paint thee as thou art to meA being luminous with heavenly truth,
Gentle, retiring, mild as patient Ruth,
A seraph sent to teach us how to be:
F
Oh! in thy face such purity I see,
That I am minded of a quiet nook,
With snowy lilies sleeping on the brook,
And leaves of summer rustling pleasantly :
And yet within thy modest bosom lies
Stern resolution for the right to act ;
No sophistry can e'er thy heart mislead ;
Silent thou art, but with a soul compact,
Enduring, strong for every noble deed,
And Home and Heaven are in thy meek blue eyes!
C.
