html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }ING on, sweet bird! thy plaintive tone
Falls sweet yet mournful o'er the ear,
For now, alas! thy notes alone
Are heard to wail the dying year.
That year is trembling on the verge
Of long past Time's unfathomed deep,
With thy sad voice to sound her dirge,
While sinking to her last long sleep.
She must away!—her hour is come!
She only waits her midnight knell;
And then departs to seek the tomb
Where ages past in darkness dwell.
And though, save thine, each voice is gone,
Which swelled for her when glad and gay,
Still, faithful bird, thou warblest on,
To mourn yet cheer her dying day.
As sweet as then thy wild notes fall,
Though all around is sad and drear,
And swiftly Nature's shadowy pall
Is closing round another year.
Another year, another year!
Canst thou, departed one, be fled?
And is there left but memory's tear
For thee, thy hopes, thy fears, thy dread?
Alas! no more; thy bygone days
No mortal eye again can see:
And lo! the sun's departing rays
Now brightly beam their last for thee.
Yet mayst thou linger, till the gloom
Of midnight tells thy day is done:
Then torchlight stars shall light thee home;
Thou must depart! thy race is run.
Farewell, thou mother year; thy doom
Is nearly sealed: yet mayst thou see
Thy daughter rising from thy tomb,
To dawn, to pass, to die like thee!
Her shadowy form now greets our sight,
But none her onward course can see;
No eve, save One, can pierce the night
Which mantles dark futurity.
But oh! whate'er our span may prove,
In that dim future yet afar,
May Heaven's unfading lamp of love
Shine o'er us as our guiding star.
Yes; may each ever-circling year
Find us, as swift it passes o'er,
More meet for that celestial sphere,
Where Time itself shall be no more.
E.