( TO. MR. AND MRS. WELCH )

Another year to its last day,

Like a lost sovereign, runaway,

Tips down the gloomy grid of time:

In vain to holloa,‘ Stop it! hey!’ —

A cab-horse that has taken fright,

Be you a policeman, stop you may;

But not a sovereign mad with glee

That scampers to the grid, perdie,

And not a year that's taken flight;

To both‘ tis just a grim good night.

But no! the imagery, say you,

Is wondrous witty — but not true;

For the old year that last night went

Has not been so much lost as spent:

You gave it in exchange to Death

For just twelve months of happy breath.

It was a ticket to admit

Two happy people close to sit —

A‘ Season’ ticket, one might say,

At Time's eternal passion play.

O magic overture of Spring,

O Summer like an Eastern King,

O Autumn, splendid widowed Queen,

O Winter, alabaster tomb

Where lie the regal twain serene,

Gone to their yearly doom.

But all you bought with that spent year,—

Ah, friends! it was as nothing, was it?

Nothing at all to hold compare

With what you buy with this New Year.

A home! ah me, you could not buy

Another half so precious toy,

With all the other years to come

As that grown-up doll's house — a home.

O wine upon its threshold stone,

And horse-shoes on the lintel of it,

And happy hearts to keep it warm,

And God Himself to love it!

Dear little nest built snug on bough

Within the World-Tree's mighty arms,

I would I knew a spell that charms

Eternal safety from the storm;

To give you always stars above,

And always roses on the bough —

But then the Tree's own root is Love,

Love, love, all love, I vow.