MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, The leaves are falling, falling, Through woods and mountain passes And the hooded clouds, like friars, There he stands in the foul weather, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day, His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith,— Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,- 66 Do not laugh at me!" And now the sweet day is dead; Then, too, the Old Year dieth, Then comes, with an awful roar, Howl! howl! and from the forest For there shall come a mightier blast, Kyrie, eleyson! [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion; "I cannot be displeased to ee these children of mine which I have neglected, and aliost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, From the earth's loosened mould The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws And, when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, |