The land is no longer in view,
      The clouds have begun to frown;
    But with a stout vessel and crew,
      We’ll say, Let the storm come down! 
    And the song of our hearts shall be,
      While the winds and the waters rave,
    A home on the rolling sea! 
      A life on the ocean wave!

EPES SARGENT.

 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

It is customary, every New Year’s eve in America, to ring bells, fire guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and gratitude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is so auspicious.  The emphasis in Tennyson’s poem is laid on gratitude for past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible advantages of the unknown and untried future.

    Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
    And the winter winds are wearily sighing: 
    Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
    And tread softly and speak low,
    For the old year lies a-dying. 
        Old year, you must not die;
        You came to us so readily,
        You lived with us so steadily,
        Old year, you shall not die.

    He lieth still:  he doth not move: 
    He will not see the dawn of day. 
    He hath no other life above. 
    He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
    And the New-year will take ’em away. 
        Old year, you must not go;
        So long as you have been with us,
        Such joy as you have seen with us,
        Old year, you shall not go.

    He froth’d his bumpers to the brim;
    A jollier year we shall not see. 
    But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim,
    And tho’ his foes speak ill of him,
    He was a friend to me. 
        Old year, you shall not die;
        We did so laugh and cry with you,
        I’ve half a mind to die with you,
        Old year, if you must die.

    He was full of joke and jest,
    But all his merry quips are o’er. 
    To see him die, across the waste
    His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
    But he’ll be dead before. 
        Every one for his own. 
        The night is starry and cold, my friend,
        And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
        Comes up to take his own.

    How hard he breathes! over the snow
    I heard just now the crowing cock. 
    The shadows flicker to and fro: 
    The cricket chirps:  the light burns low: 
   ’Tis nearly twelve o’clock. 
        Shake hands, before you die. 
        Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: 
        What is it we can do for you? 
        Speak out before you die.

    His face is growing sharp and thin. 
    Alack! our friend is gone. 
    Close up his eyes:  tie up his chin: 
    Step from the corpse, and let him in
    That standeth there alone,
        And waiteth at the door. 
        There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend,
        And a new face at the door, my friend,
        A new face at the door.