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512    E. JUSTINE BAYARD.

But the vaults of human souls,
Where the memory unrolls
All her tear-besprinkled scrolls,
Are its tomb!

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
The moon hath gone to weep
With a mourning still and deep
For her loss:-
The stars dare not assemble
Through the murky night to tremble-
The naked trees are groaning
With an awful, mystic moaning-
Wings sweep upon the air,
Which a solemn message bear,
And hosts, whose banners wear
A crowned cross!

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
Who make the funeral train
When the queen hath ceased to reign?
Who are here
With the golden crowns that follow
All invested with a halo?
With a splendour transitory
Shines the midnight from their glory,
And the pæan of their song
Rolls the aisles of space along,
But the left hearts are less strong,
For they were dear!

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
With a dull and heavy tread
Tramping forward with the dead
Who come last?

         E. JUSTINE BAYARD.     513
Ling'ring with their faces groundward,
Though their feet are marching onward,
They are shrieking,-they are calling
On the rocks in tones appalling,
But Earth waves them from her view,-
And the God-light dazzles through,
And they shiver, as spars do,
Before the blast!

'Tis the death-night of the solemn Old Year!
We are parted from our place
In her motherly embrace,
And are lone!
For the infant and the stranger
It is sorrowful to change her-
She hath cheered the night of mourning
With a promise of the dawning;
She hath shared in our delight
With a gladness true and bright:
Oh! we need her joy to-night-
But she is gone!

            MUSIC OF NATURE
I am here lonely! There was once a time
I could divine no sorrow in that word;
I carried in my heart a sweeter chime
Than in the voice of other men is heard;
And Nature spake to me in sun and shade,
And my own thought a pleasant music made.

The air was instinct with a lovely spell,
The winds awoke in mystic harmonies,
And moonlit waves at summer eve could tell
Strange tales to me, as playfully the breeze
Swept o'er their crests, no longer still or mute,
Like fairy fingers over harp or lute.
                          2H