MISCELLANY.

Hark! there comes at midnight hour

Sound like funeral knell,

Chaining us with magic power,

Whispering, “Farewell.”

‘ Tis the dying year's last sigh

Mingling with the storm;

Closes now his hollow eye,

Sinks his feeble form.

Still at midnight, dark and lone,

Mournful echoes ring,

Murmuring in solemn tone,

“Time is on the wing.”