Hearest thou that peal a-telling
Night-noon stories to the Sky;
Hark! each wave of sound comes welling
Like a scolded angel's cry;
And the voice the belfry flingeth
Sobbing from its brazen breast,
Like a god in trouble singeth,
Waking half the world from rest;
Now it wails in murmuring sadness,
As a child at words unkind;
Now it comes with merry gladness,
Floating weirdly on the wind.
Ah! 'tis sad;---yet sprightly-hearted;
Song of Birth and gloomy Bier;
Death-dirge for the Days departed;
Carol for the coming Year.
Is it that the voice reminds thee
Of the wasted moments past?
Saith it that the New Year finds thee
Where it left thee last?
Doth the merry music taunt thee,
How the Palace love had reared
Mocks with echoes now, that haunt thee
Where thou dream'dst they would have cheered?
Moan the bells with thee in sorrow
O'er a little mound of green,
Rising up from graveyard furrow
Bleakly blank upon the scene?
Doth the tender language, stealing
O'er the soul with soothing swell,
Waken thoughts from sweet concealing:
Joyous tale for chimes to tell;
Reviving dainty hours of gladness,
Fresh as daisies in the spring,
As birds in summer, void of sadness,
Songs, heart-buried, wake and sing?
Doth the sea of music bear thee
Back again upon the Past,
To show thee that the New Year finds thee
Happier than the last?
Doth it tell of plans laid glowing
On the anvil of thy heart;
Times thou'st raised thy hand for throwing
In life's battle many a dart?
How each plan unstricken lingered
Till the mouldful heat was gone?
How each dart was faintly fingered,
Resting in the end unthrown;
Of the Faith thou pawn'dst for Fancies--
Substance for a fadeful beam?
Doth it taunt with bartered chances--
Sterling strength for drowsy dream?
Doth it brand thee apathetic?
Twit with lost days many a one?
Doth it chant in words emphatic
"Gone for aye; for ever gone?"
Is it that the voice reminds thee
Of the wasted moments past?
Saith it that the New Year finds thee.
Wiser than the last?
'Tis not so!--and still, as ever,
Time's a jewel in its loss;
But, possessed in plenty, never
Held as ought but worthless dross.
Like lost truant-boys we linger
Whimpering in Life's mazy wood,
Heedless of the silent finger
Ever pointing for our good;
Each, in plodding darkness groping,
Clothes his day in dreamy night,
'Stead of boldly climbing, hoping,
Up the steeps towards the light,
Where, as metal plucks the lightning
Flashing from the lofty sky,
Sturdy purpose, ever heightening,
Grasps an Immortality.
Let not future peals remind thee,
Then, of wasted moments passed;
Let not future New Years find thee
Where each left thee last.