The Scrolls of the Year [pp. 127-128]

THE LADIES REPOSi7TOR r.
In a graceful, rich profusion,
Ripples snowy white,
Flowed his hair, and seemed to scatter
Rays of silvery light.
Mute I stood, his coming waiting
When upon my ear
Fell these words in tones of music,
Accents sweet and clear,
And I listened, grateful, eager,
Each true word to hear.
"Mortal, I have watched thee standing
Bowing'neath the weight
Of thy burden, weeping, wailing,
'None like thine so great;'
I have heard the words of murmuring,
That each prayer do freight.
I have heard thee sighing, grieving
O'er this dying year,
Mortal, hast thou now forgotten,
Fast is drawing near
A New Year, whose face so hopeful
Shall to thee appear?
I am Time, thy father ever,
Thee, my child, I love,
Loth my heart to see thy tear-drops,
Dear thy smiles would prove,
Discontent my hand would gladly
From thy heart remove.
Look, behold, the old year cometh,
Bowed and bent his form;
Tired his back with bearing burdens
Men have cast thereon;
Weary now he waits the moment
When his rest is won.
He, 0 mortals, pure scrolls bearing,
To this fair earth came;
Now, 0, sad the tale and painful,
Stain is hid by stain;
Then their load was light and easy,
Now't is borne with pain.
This is why his form, once towering,
Now is bending low;
This is why his step, once agile,
Now is weak and slow;
In his burden thy scroll presseth,
This thy soul should know.
Soon through yonder shadowy portals
Will this old year pass,
This thy scroll, so blotted, bearing
Far beyond thy grasp;
Yet, O mortal, long not, hope not,
Its foul leaves to clasp.
Turn thy back upon its blackness,
And when thou shalt see,
Young and glad, the new year rising,
Smiling joy on thee,
Then 0, pray thy scroll may never
Marred and blotted be!"
Thus he ceased; so fast his footsteps
O'er the way had sped,
That beyond me, near the shadows,
Now his tall form led;
With a quickened pace I followed
Near those portals dread.
Then I watched their outlines gloomy,
Till the burdened year
Fell within their dark embracing,
Weak, and bowed, and sear,
And there fell, in quiet grieving,
O'er his death a tear.
But why tears? with joy I murmured,
For behold yon youth!
Ah I his load of scrolls, I see them,
Gaze I now with ruth,
Wondering if those scrolls will only
Feel the kiss of Truth.
Then I prayed, 0, Savior, grant thou,
When the year is done,
All my scroll may glow with brightness
From thy beaming Sun,
And all spots beneath its shining
Hid be every one!
This my prayer, and when awaking
Still the firelight gleamed,
Still the room in dimness mantled
With strange shadows teemed,
Through my soul so long enshrouded
A new glory streamed.
From my couch I rose with thanking,
Blessing that dear Hand
That I knew would safely guide me
Through this toilsome land,
Till at last it should, untying,
Loose this fleshly band.
0, my sister, brother, toiling,
Weeping oft, I ween,
Let not these thy loud repinings
Thy scroll's fairness screen,
Cast thy care upon thy Savior,
He thy woe hath seen.
And while seeking, ever seeking
Thus to deck thy scroll
With a pure and true appearing,
Joy will fill thy soul;
Light and glow thy footsteps gilding
Upward to thy goal.
THE watchman on the battlement partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth; the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars,
Which, in that brightest moonlight well-nigh
quench'd,
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with everlasting influence
Toward eternity the attemper'd mind.
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