The year is born to--day--methinks it hath
A chilly time of it; for down the sky
The flaky frost--cloud stretches, and the Sun
Lifted his large light from the Eastern plains.
With gloomy mist--enfolded countenance,
And garments rolled in blood. Under the haze
Along the face of the waters, gather fast
Sharp spikes of the fresh ice; as if the year
That died last night, had dropt down suddenly
In his full strength of genial government,
Prisoning the sharp breath of the Northern winds;
Who now burst forth and revel unrestrained
Over the new king's months of infancy.

The bells rung merrily when the old year died;
He past away in music; his death--sleep
Closed on him like the slumber of a child
When a sweet hymn in a sweet voice above him
Takes up into its sound his gentle being.

And we will raise to him two monuments;
One where he died, and one where he lies buried;
One in the pealing of those midnight bells,
Their swell and fall, and varied interchange,
The tones that come again upon the spirit
In years far off, mid unshaped accidents;--
And one in the deep quiet of the soul,
The mingled memories of a thousand moods
Of joy and sorrow;--and his epitaph
Shall be upon him;--''Here lie the remains
Of one, who was less valued while he lived,
Than thought on when he died.''