But thou go forth and do thy deed,
In forest and in town,
Nor sigh for ease, while pain and need
Are plucking at thy gown.
And thus, when bitter turneth sweet,
And every heart is blest,
Perchance to thee God's hand shall mete
His unimagined rest.
THE NEW YEAR.
LONG foretold by those prophets old,
The sun, the moon, and the stars,
The New Year waits at Time's high gates
And clashes the golden bars.
And the soul of the world awakens and gropes
In a twilight glimmer of fears and hopes,
As a new wave breaks on the beaten shores,
As a new foot falls on the trodden floors,
And a New Year stands with uplifted hands
In the light of the opened doors.
All uncrowned, with his hair unbound,
His white hair loose on the wind,
The Old Year goes to his long repose,
But he casts his gifts behind.
