On a Calm Day Towards the Close of the Year

There never was an hour of purer peace !
Methinks old Time, in mere mortality,
Gives up the ghost, contented not to be.
And all the pulses of great Nature cease.
Whatever betokens hope, life, or increase.
The gladsome expectation, or the dread
Of chance and change upon to-morrow fed.
Await the expiration of their lease
In dumb dull apathy. Not on the tree
Stirs the brown leaf; or, if detach'd, it drop,
So very slow it wavers to the ground
One might suppose that central gravity,
Prime law of nature, were about to stop :
Ne'er died a year with spirit so profound.