And then he sighed, as one who died,
With a great wish unsatisfied;
Around him like a wintry sea,
Whose waves were nations, surged the world,
Stormy, unstable, constantly
Upheaved to be again down-hurled;
Here struggled some for freedom; here
Oppression rode in the high career.
In hot debate
Men struggled, while the hours waxed late;
Contending with the watchful zeal
Of gladiators, trained to die;
Yet not for life, nor country's weal,
But that their names might hang on high
As men who loved themselves, indeed,
And robbed the State to satisfy their need!
Heads of snow, and eyes aglow
With fires that youth might blush to know;
And brows whose youthful fairness shamed
The desperate thoughts that strove within;
While each his cause exulting named
As purest that the world had seen:
All names they had to tickle honest ears,
Reform, and Rights, and sweet Philanthropy's cares.
"Well-a-day! Well-a-day!"
The Old Year strove to put away
Sight and sound of the reckless earth;
But soft! from out a cottage door,
Sweet strains of neither grief nor mirth,
Upon his dying ear did pour;
"Give us, O God," the singers said,
"As good a year as this one dead!"
