I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, ― sorely! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! Through woods and mountain passes They are chanting solemn masses, And the hooded clouds, like friars, All in vain! There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear, Then comes the summer-like day, Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,- Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, "Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!” And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread No mist or stain! |