Poems (Welby)/The Parted Year
THE PARTED YEAR.
The parted year hath passed away
Unto that dreamy land,
Where ages upon ages sleep,
A mighty, slumbering band,
And, like a blood-stained conqueror
Grown weary of renown,
Hath yielded to the new-born year
His sceptre and his crown.
Unto that dreamy land,
Where ages upon ages sleep,
A mighty, slumbering band,
And, like a blood-stained conqueror
Grown weary of renown,
Hath yielded to the new-born year
His sceptre and his crown.
Hushed now should be each tone of glee,
Unquaffed the sparkling wine,
While Love and Grief bow hand in hand
At Memory's sacred shrine;
E'en haughty Pride should humbly bend
Down from his lofty steep,
And from the banquet laughing Mirth
Should turn aside and weep.
Unquaffed the sparkling wine,
While Love and Grief bow hand in hand
At Memory's sacred shrine;
E'en haughty Pride should humbly bend
Down from his lofty steep,
And from the banquet laughing Mirth
Should turn aside and weep.
Unwearied Thought, with solemn brow,
Droops o'er the heart's deep urn,
And traces on its glowing page,
The past will ne'er return.
While Fancy from her starry height
Returns with mournful eye,
And, folding up her rainbow wing.
Stands meekly pensive by.
Droops o'er the heart's deep urn,
And traces on its glowing page,
The past will ne'er return.
While Fancy from her starry height
Returns with mournful eye,
And, folding up her rainbow wing.
Stands meekly pensive by.
Hark! the low winds are sighing now
O'er the departed year,
And gathering in dim autumn leaves,
To strew upon His bier,
While the tall trees stand leafless round,
Unstirred by summer's breath,
Like mourners reft of every hope
Above the couch of death.
O'er the departed year,
And gathering in dim autumn leaves,
To strew upon His bier,
While the tall trees stand leafless round,
Unstirred by summer's breath,
Like mourners reft of every hope
Above the couch of death.
But now the sepulchre of years
Hath closed its portals o'er
The form of the departed year
In silence as before;
And the New-Year with stately tread
Steals slowly o'er the earth,
Robed in the garments of his state,
A monarch from his birth.
Hath closed its portals o'er
The form of the departed year
In silence as before;
And the New-Year with stately tread
Steals slowly o'er the earth,
Robed in the garments of his state,
A monarch from his birth.
Could we but lift the mildewed veil
O'er buried ages cast,
And bring to light the darkened things
That slumber with the past,
Sad mysteries, undreamed of now,
One glance would then unfold,
And many other mournful things,
Too mournful to be told.
O'er buried ages cast,
And bring to light the darkened things
That slumber with the past,
Sad mysteries, undreamed of now,
One glance would then unfold,
And many other mournful things,
Too mournful to be told.
The cold, the dead, the beautiful,
E'en now they silent pass
Like floating shadows, one by one,
O'er memory's faithful glass;
And Hope, and Love start fondly up
To greet them as of yore,
But something whispers unto each—
Be still; they are no more.
E'en now they silent pass
Like floating shadows, one by one,
O'er memory's faithful glass;
And Hope, and Love start fondly up
To greet them as of yore,
But something whispers unto each—
Be still; they are no more.
Time, ceaseless Time, we know not when
Thy wanderings began,
The dreamy past is sealed to us,
The future none may scan;
We only know that round thy path
Dark ruins have been hurled,
That, 'neath thy wing Destruction rears
His altars o'er the world.
Thy wanderings began,
The dreamy past is sealed to us,
The future none may scan;
We only know that round thy path
Dark ruins have been hurled,
That, 'neath thy wing Destruction rears
His altars o'er the world.
E'en Science from his eagle height
So little can foresee,
He silent turns abashed away
If we but ask of thee;
And if to Eloquence we turn,
Mute is her silver tongue,
As if upon her spirit's lyre
The dews of death were hung.
So little can foresee,
He silent turns abashed away
If we but ask of thee;
And if to Eloquence we turn,
Mute is her silver tongue,
As if upon her spirit's lyre
The dews of death were hung.
Still onward, onward thou dost press
With low and measured tread,
Peopling with cold and lifeless forms
The cities of the dead;
Throwing around the young and fair
The shadow of thy wing,
And stealing from each human heart
Some loved and cherished thing.
With low and measured tread,
Peopling with cold and lifeless forms
The cities of the dead;
Throwing around the young and fair
The shadow of thy wing,
And stealing from each human heart
Some loved and cherished thing.
Yet deep, deep in each thrilling heart
One fount remaineth still,
Which hoary Time nor icy Death
Hath power to touch or chill:
It is the holy fount of Love,
Whose waters hallowed lie,
Filled from that everlasting source,
The well-spring from on high.
One fount remaineth still,
Which hoary Time nor icy Death
Hath power to touch or chill:
It is the holy fount of Love,
Whose waters hallowed lie,
Filled from that everlasting source,
The well-spring from on high.
We cannot stay thy footsteps, Time!
Thy flight no hand can bind
Save His, whose foot is on the sea,
Whose voice is in the wind;
Yet, when the stars from their bright spheres
Like living flames are hurled,
Thy mighty form will sink beneath
The ruins of the world.
Thy flight no hand can bind
Save His, whose foot is on the sea,
Whose voice is in the wind;
Yet, when the stars from their bright spheres
Like living flames are hurled,
Thy mighty form will sink beneath
The ruins of the world.