Dull and grey were the closing days of the year now dead, With weeping skies, and thick cold mists that shroud-like spread— As though Dame Nature wished to hide the dying bed.
O year, so full of promise bright! O fated ninety-three! Who, looking on thy dawning hours, could thy dark close foresee, Or guess that thou wert pregnant with such human misery.
Surely our God in mercy sent to us the summer fair, That the memory of its golden days should keep us from despair, When hearts and homes alike should be cold and sad with care.
But in the time of suffering drear I saw a form arise. I watched it long, I saw it oft in many a strange disguise; But through them all I recognised the sweet Self-sacrifice.
And here and there from hall and cot went Christian Charity; And by her side I also saw that kind soul Sympathy— Whose cheery tones and genial smile brighten'd Adversity.
Then there were hearts that we had thought devoid of human feeling That opened out at Sorrow's cry, true kindliness revealing— Hearts of gold, that all the while the dross bad been concealing.
But the turn in the lane has come at last—a rift in the dark cloud too; A brighter day is about to dawn, so shoulder your burdens anew, And may He who has led us in this old year guide us again in the new. ······ Draw back the curtains that I may look out on the face of the new-born year. Lo! the mists have all sped away, and the sun has risen bright and clear— Harbinger of, let us hope, a brighter and more prosperous year.
