A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Last Day of the Year (Madame A. Tastu)
THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR.
Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes,
Que faites-vous des jours que vous engloutissez?A. De Lamartine.
The day declines, the hours draw near
Of balmy and refreshing sleep;
The sun, the last sun of the year,
Has sunk beneath the waveless deep.
Beside the hearth I sit alone,
While shadows strange before me pass,
The past and present dimly shown
As in a wizard's magic glass.
Long, long the flame arrests my sight,
Waving capricious, then the hand
That counts upon the dial white
Time's footfall, silent, calm and grand.
Another step, another hour,
And then the old year shall be dead;
What mortal can oppose the power
That crumbles worlds beneath its tread?
And why should I pursue that march?
Can I retard its even course?
The fallen pillar, mouldering arch,
Attest its overwhelming force.
And if I could, would I bring back
A single buried day? Oh no,
Only lone journeying on my track,
Each day's farewell oppresses so
My heart, that I perforce must say,
Lo! Lo! Another flower is gone,
Dropped from my crown to whirl away—
Where? In the wild and far unknown.
Another shadow on the shade
Already stretched across my path,
Another spring retrenched and bade
To join those that Oblivion hath.
Hearken! The calm sonorous sound
Slow shudders—twelve. 'Tis done! 'tis done!
While darkness reigns on earth profound,
The old year's dead, the new begun.
Adieu! And hail! O veiled new year
Greetings! What bearest thou in hand?
Tell us what benefits are near?
Shall peace and plenty rule the land?
What do I say? Oh, rather hide
The secrets dormant in thy breast:
In youth and hope thou seem'st a bride,
And fairy colours on thee rest.
But not the less thy course may bring
Regrets and tears and bitter sighs;
Thus every day upon the wing
Beholds our senseless vows arise,
And thus, before its course is o'er,
It sees our dearest things decay
And vanish to return no more;
Like bubbles,—all, all past away.
All, all, save one, for Hope remains,
And spreads her strange fantastic life—
A spell against our griefs and pains,
Across the future's sombre night;
And guides us on from year to year,
Until at last the happy day
That hath no end, dawn bright and clear.
March, Time! And East the streak display!