590 JOHN H. A. BONE, [1850-60. And the lamps that light on the altar shed Were the twinkling stars on high. The scented flowers their incense gave, The sighing breeze was the bell, The choristers were the woods and wave, And the surf as it rose and fell ; The daisied turf was his jeweled shrine Where he knelt from care apart, The foiling dew was the sacred wine, And the priest was his truthful heart. Years have passed, and a mouldering wall Stands where the Minster stood ; And brambles grow and reptiles crawl 'Round the base of the holy rood ; Fallen are pillar and fretted arch, And the toad leaves its noisome slime On the pavement crushed 'neath the heavy march Of the grim destroyer. Time. Gone is the wealth from the altar-stone. Rotten the vestments gay ; Dimmed forever the lamps that shone Near the shrines by night and day. Naught is heard but the shrieking owl. Or the distant hunter's horn ; — Laid in the dust is casque and cowl, And their faith is a thing of scorn. But the daisied turf still forms a shrine, And the skies their blue arch spread ; The lamps of night unfaded shine. And the flowers their incense shed. The woods and waves raise their hymn again. As they raised it in days of yore ; — Many temples fall, but Nature's fane Forever stands secure. NEW-YEAR'S EVE. On the land the shrouding snow White, and ghastly, and chill ; An icy hand on the wave. Holding it silent and still ; And a wailing breath, like the voice of Death, Creeping over the hill. A pallid moon above. Set in a star-gemmed sky ; Spectral shapes of cloud Hurridly flitting by. O'er the sheeted snow as they swiftly go. Making gaunt shadows fly. The Old Year totters forth With weak, uncertain tread ; Bent with care his back. Bowed with sorrow his head, As he totters on where before have gone The years now cold and dead. His path is amid the graves, And specters fill the air, — Dim shapes of perished hopes. Weird forms of shuddering fear. And more ghastly still, so stony and chill. Dread shadows of wan despair. Lost in the gloom of night Is the Old Year gray and worn ; But a ruddy tint in the East Heralds the coming morn. And the sweet-voiced bells glad tidings tell Of a Year that is newly born.
