’Tis midnight. Lo! the Old Year stands upon The threshold of the Past. To God it speeds Its way, but bears a burden, for I see Its form bend drooping with the weary weight Of evil deeds, and feelings harsh and cold. Farewell, Old Year! With light heart full of joy I greeted thee, before thou mad’st thy sad And bitter revelations to my soul. Temptations, grievous trials thou didst bring, And sorrow’s blinding, overwhelming tide. And yet I leave thee with a grateful heart, Thou stern but blest Instructor! Lessons harsh Of thee I’ve learned, but strength’ning have they been: And though thou bearest with thee record sad Of my poor deeds, and goodness left undone, That fills my heart with sorrow for the past, Bright blessed hopes like angels hover round This coming year. Hail, then, thou unknown one! I see proceeding from thee spirit forms; They are my future hours, good or bad. Mysterious shapes are they. Their mantles hang Around them dark and heavy—hooded, veiled, They give no sign of sorrow, nor of joy. Slowly each form advances; and to me Alone is given the right to raise those veils; But as I lift each hood, upon the face Beneath, my spirit traces there a mute But yet unchanging record of my thoughts— A faithful impress of my inner self— Then past recall the hour floats away! A gift these hours have in charge for me. My weal or wo they hold—my light—my shade. Dark sorrow they may bring me—bitter tears— Or sunny joys—bright Laughter’s merry crew May playful lurk behind those gloomy folds But if to me the right were given to lift Those veils, before the ordered time, and know The gifts they bring—I’d pause. I do not seek To know my future. This I humbly ask, In joy or wo, that God may give to me A firm, strong faith, and purity of heart. With gifts divine like these, my future years Might come unfeared, and pass without regret Or sad remorse. And now, my soul, regard This new-born year, just launching on the sea Of life. Twelve moons will roll around, and thou May’st stand as now, with sad and heavy thoughts, Upon its brink, and see with hopeless tears This year float from thee. Dark and mist-like shapes, Dim spirit forms may hover o’er the past. Forms that were once, like youth’s sweet visions, bright And filled with glory—resolutions, hopes, And thoughts of what thou purposed to have been; But unfulfilled and fading there may float— These are the forms that spectre-like may haunt And darken then thy past.