MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow; "Caw! caw!" the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woe! MIDNIGHT MASS. Through woods and mountain passes They are chanting solemn masses, And the hooded clouds, like friars, All in vain! There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, 41 Crowned with wild flowers and with leather, Like weak, despised Lear, A king, a king! Then comes the summer-like day. Bids the old man rejoice! His joy! his last! O, the old man gray, Loveth that ever-scft voice, Gentle and low. To the crimson woods he saith, To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread No mist or stainl Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind! MIDNIGHT MASS. Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, And the stars, from heaven down-cast. Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson ! 43 |