Henry Alford

Written January 1, 1832.

The year is born to--day--methinks it hath A chilly time of it; for down the sky The flaky frost--cloud stretches, and the Sun Lifted his large light from the Eastern plains. With gloomy mist--enfolded countenance, And garments rolled in blood. Under the haze Along the face of the waters, gather fast Sharp spikes of the fresh ice; as if the year That died last night, had dropt down suddenly In his full strength of genial government, Prisoning the sharp breath of the Northern winds; Who now burst forth and revel unrestrained Over the new king's months of infancy. The bells rung merrily when the old year died; He past away in music; his death--sleep Closed on him like the slumber of a child When a sweet hymn in a sweet voice above him Takes up into its sound his gentle being. And we will raise to him two monuments; One where he died, and one where he lies buried; One in the pealing of those midnight bells, Their swell and fall, and varied interchange, The tones that come again upon the spirit In years far off, mid unshaped accidents;-- And one in the deep quiet of the soul, The mingled memories of a thousand moods Of joy and sorrow;--and his epitaph Shall be upon him;--``Here lie the remains Of one, who was less valued while he lived, Than thought on when he died. ''