Worn and poor, The Old Year came to Eternity's door. Once, when his limbs were young and strong, From that shining portal came he forth, Led by the sound of shout and song, To the festive halls of jubilant earth;-- Now, his allotted cycle o'er, He waited, spent, by the Golden Door. Faint and far--faint and far, Surging up soft between sun and star, Strains of revelry smote his ear; Musical murmurs from lyre and lute-- Rising in choruses grand and clear, Sinking in cadences almost mute-- Vexing the ear of him who sate Wearied beside the Shining Gate. Sad and low, Flowed in an undertone of woe: Wailing among the moons it came, Sobbing in echoes against the stars; Smothered behind some comet's flame, Lost in the wind of the war-like Mars, --Mingling, ever and anon, With the music's swell a sigh or moan. "As in a glass, Let the earth once before me pass," The Old Year said; and space untold Vanished, till nothing came between; Folded away, crystal and gold, Nor azure air did intervene; "As in a glass" he saw the earth Decking a bier and waiting a birth. "You crown me dead," the Old Year said, "Before my parting hour is sped: O fickle, false, and reckless world! Time to Eternity may not haste; Not till the last Hour's wing is furled Within the gate my reign is past! O Earth! O World! fair, false and vain, I grieve not at my closing reign." Yet spirit-sore The dead king noted a palace door; He saw the gay crowd gather in; He scanned the face of each passer by; Snowiest soul, and heart of sin; Tried and untried humanity: Age and Youth, Pleasure and Pain, Braided at chance in a motley skein. "Ill betide Ye thankless ones!" the Old Year cried; "Have I not given you night and day, Over and over, score upon score, Wherein to live, and love, and pray, And suck the ripe world to its rotten core? Yet do you reek if my reign be done? E're I pass ye crown the newer one! At ball and rout ye dance and shout, Shutting men's cries of suffering out, That startle the white-tressed silences Musing beside the fount of light, In the eternal space, to press Their roses, each a nebula bright, More close to their lips serene, While ye wear this unconscious mein!" "Even so." The revelers said: "We'll have naught of woe. Why should we mourn, who have our fill? Enough that the hungry wretches cry: We from our plenty cast at will Some crumbs to make their wet eyelids dry; But to the rich the world is fair-- Why should we grovel in tears and prayer?"