Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Dying Year
THE DYING YEAR.
Voice of the Dying Year! I hear thy moan,
Like some spent breaker of the distant sea,
Chafing the fretted rock. Is this the end
Of thy fresh morning music, gushing out
In promises of hope? Have the bright flush
Of Spring's young beauty, crown'd with budding flowers,
The passion-vow of Summer, and the pledge
Of faithful, fruitful Autumn, come to this?
I see thy youngling moon go down the west,
The midnight clock gives warning, and its stroke
Must be thy death-knell. Is that quivering gasp
The last sad utterance of thine agony?
I see thy clay-cold fingers try to clasp
Some prop-in vain!
And so thou art no more.
No more! Thy rest is with oblivious years
Beyond the flood. Yet when the trump shall sound,
Blown by the strong archangel, thou shalt wake
From the dim sleep of ages. When the tombs
That lock their slumbering tenants cleave in twain,
Thou shalt come forth. Yea, thou shalt rise again,
And I shall look upon thee, when the dead
Stand before God. But come not murmuring forth,
Unwillingly, like Samuel's summon'd ghost,
To daunt me at the judgment. No; be kind,
Be pitiful, bear witness tenderly;
And if thou hast a dread account for me,
Go, dip thy dark scroll in redeeming blood.