A Glimpse of Auld Lang-Syne

EARTH, sparkling Bride-like, bares her bosom to the
nestling Night,
Who hath come down in glory from the golden halls
of light;

Ten thousand tender, starry eyes smile o'er the world
at rest,
The weary world — husht like an infant on its mother's
breast!

The great old hills thrust up their foreheads in rich-
sleeping light:

How humbly-grand, and still they stand, worshipping
God to-night!

The flowers have hung their cups with gems of their
own sweetness wrought,
And muse and smile upon their stems, in ecstasy of
thought:

They have banqueted on beauty, at the fragrant Eve's
red lips,
And fold in charm'd rest, with crowns upon their
velvet tips.

No green tide sweeps the sea of leaves, no wind-sigh
stirs the sod,
While Holiness broods dove-like on the soul, begetting
God.

Sweet hour! thou wak'st the feeling that we never
know by day,
For angel eyes look down, and read the spirit 'neath
the clay:

Even while I listen, music stealeth in upon my soul,
As though adown heaven's stair of stars, the seraph-
harpings stole —
Or I could grasp the immortal part of life, and soar,
and soar,
Such strong wings take me, and my heart hath found
such hidden lore!

It flings aside the weight of years, and lovingly goes
back,
To that sweet time, the dear old days, that glisten on
its track!

Life's wither'd leaves grow green again, and fresh with
Childhood's spring,
As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbow-
ring: —
The Past, with all its gather'd charms, beckons me
back in joy,
Andloving hearts, and open arms, re-clasp me as a
boy.

The voices of the Loved and Lost are stirring at my
heart,
And memory's miser'd treasures leap to life, with
sudden start, —
As through her darkened windows, warm and glad
sunlight creeps in,
And Lang-syne, glimpst in glorious tears, my toil-worn
soul doth win.

Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou hast lookt
and smiled, Mother,
And I am sitting by thy side, at heart a very child,
Mother!

I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, much as in
those hours,
When all my wealth was in thy love, and in the birds
and flowers,
When the long summer days were short, for my glad
soul to live
The golden fulness of the bliss, each happy hour could
give.

When Heaven sang to my innocence, and every leafy
grove
And forest ached with music, as a young heart aches
with love.

When life oped like a flower, where clung my lips,
to quaff its honey,
And joys throng'd like a shower of gold king-cups
in meadows sunny.

I'll tell thee, Mother! since we met, stern chang
have come o'er me:
Then life smiled like a paradise, the world was all
before me.

O! I was full of trusting faith, and, in my glee and
gladness,
Deem'd not that others had begun as bright, whose
end was madness.

I knew not smiles could light up eyes, like Sunset's
laughing glow
On some cold stream, which burns above, while all
runs dark below;

That on Love's summer sea, great souls go down, while
some, grown cold,
Seal up affection's living spring, and sell their love
for gold;

How they on whom we'd staked the heart forget
the early vow,
And they who swore to love through life would pass
all coldly now;

How, in the soul's dark hour, Love's temple- veil is
rent in twain,
And the heart quivers thorn-crown'd on the cross of
fiery pain.

And shatter'd idols, broken dreams, come crowding
on my brain,
As speaks the spirit-voice of days that never come
again.

It tells of golden moments lost — heart sear'd — blind
Passion's thrall;
Life's spring-tide blossoms run to waste, Love's honey
turn'd to gall.

It tells how many and often high resolve and purpose
strong,
Shaped on the anvil of my heart, have failed upon my
tongue.

I left thee, Mother, in sweet May, the merry month
of flowers,
To toil away in dusky gloom the golden summer-
hours.

I left my world of love behind, with soul for life
a-thirsting,
My burning eyelid dropt no tear, although my heart
was bursting.

For I had knit my soul to climb, with poverty its
burden;
Give me but time, O give me time, and I would win
the guerdon.

Ah, Mother! many a heart that all my aspiration
cherisht,
Hath fallen in the trampling strife, and in the life-
march perisht.

We see the bleeding victims lie upon the world's grim
Altar,
And one by one young feelings die, and dark doubts
make us falter.

Mother, the world hath wreakt its part on me, with
scathing power,
Yet the best life that heaves my heart runs for thee
at this hour.

And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes with
sweet tears wet,
I know there wells a spring of love through all my
being yet.