Landon in The Literary Gazette 1834/The New Year
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE NEW YEAR.
Let the black clouds sweep o'er the sky,
Earth-born, they suit our earthly sphere;
Fit pall for the departed one,
Fit cradle for the coming Year.
Heavy like many a heart below,
Yet lit with gleams of broken light,
Uncertain, shadowy, and their gloom
So soon to merge in deeper night.
On such a scroll might Fate inscribe
The records of the Year to be—
The dark, the transient—such a page
O Earth! is chronicle for thee.
'Twas a false science that which sought
Thy future where those planets shine:
The bright, the calm–ah! what have they
In common or with thee or thine?
The clouds, and not the stars, to them
The omen and the sign be given—
The clouds, the vapours of our soil,
Not stars, whose element is heaven.
The deepening shade, the flitting light,
Mark what each coming month will know—
The passing joy, the constant care,
Of life's sad pilgrimage below.
The past still mirrors the to-come:
Let each say what their past has been.
Do they not shudder to recall—
Would they live o'er each troubled scene?
Ah! happy those, if such there be,
Whose still unbroken spirits raise
Some vision to be realised,
Some fond belief in happier days.
The changeful Year itself may read
Its lesson to the human heart!
How pass away its sunshine hours;
How does its loveliness depart!
From the first flower, which, timid, sad,
Rises amid the unkindly snow,
To the last rose, whose pale sweet blush
Has half forgot its early glow—
Do they not fade and fall?—the air
Forgetful of their summer spell,
Till Earth seems one vast sepulchre,
Inscribed with one sad word, "Farewell!"
And thus it is with life: how soon
Its early hopes decline and die!
And love, which lingers to the last,
Forgets its smile, but keeps its sigh.
Look back—twelve phantoms, drear and dim,
Have melted into silent space;
Twelve more come gradual in their room,
With eager step and hidden face.
Ah! trust them not;—the veil when raised
Will shew but faces ye have known;
Though still from every added round
Something of light and life is flown.
Those cheerful bells, how can they bid
A welcome to the new-born Year?
I think on what the past has been;
I cannot hope—I only fear.
Oh, vanity of mirth! those bells
What mockery the peal they gave!
Chime as for a departing soul—
Toll o'er the New Year as a grave.
L. E. L.