The Old Year

The white dawn glimmered and he said, "'T is day!"
The east was reddening and he sighed "Farewell" —
The herald Sun came forth and he was dead.
Life was in all his veins but yester-morn,
And ruddy health seemed laughing on his lips; —
Now he is dust and will not breathe again!
Give him a place to lay his regal head,
Give him a tomb beside his brothers gone,
Give him a tablet for his deeds and name.
Hear the new voice that claims the vacant throne,
Take the new hand outstretched to meet thy kiss, —
But give the Past — 'tis all thou canst — thy tears!