From the dim, dread veil that in wisdom is cast
Between men and the shadowy scope
Of the future, the young Year comes at last
In the flush of his strength and hope.
And as onward he comes, firm of heart and tread,
The ghosts of the vanish'd years
Place their long, thin hands as they bless on his head,
While their eyes fill up with tears.
But a sadder look is on brow and cheek
As he bends by the dying year,
To catch the word he in turn must speak
In the world's toil-deafen'd ear.
Then the pale, hush'd years slowly gather round,
With an anxious look in their eyes,
As they bend in their haste to hear the sound
Of the word ere the old year dies.
And, lo! in a silence, as if of death,
That word is given, and then
The ghosts of the years fade away like a breath,
While the New comes forth to men.
And, hark! how the bells ring forth their mirth
In the cool, still air above!
Oh, well may they peal to the ends of the earth,
For the watchword whisper'd was 'Love.'
Then, brothers, here, ere our footsteps part,
And we turn to our labour again,
Let that watchword still have a place in our heart
As we toil amid toiling men.
So that we, too, dying, may leave behind,
Ere the other shadows begin,
The same warm word in the hearts of our kind,
Till the last New Year comes in.