THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.
By Sarah E. Clough
O FLEETING years! though oft the theme
Of poet's song and waking dream,
Still, oft as changing seasons bring
The burden of their offering,
And winter covers hedge and tree
With robes like loving charity,
As oft doth memory linger round
The past, as on enchanted ground,
And muses join to sing the praise,
Or chant the dirge of by-gone days. If we could know all that has been,
Or, could all scenes of joy or sin,
Which the old year has seen and known,
In panoramic views be shown—
What lights and shades of life would be
Depicted in that scenery!
There side by side with wealth and fame,
And cultured mind, and honored name,
Would be such views of want and sin,
That hearts would ache to look within;
And scenes where love and beauty reign
Be followed close by scenes of pain. For chimes of merry marriage bells
Have mingled with sad funeral knells;
And those who dreamed earth's joys their own,
Have waked to find earth's hopes have flown;
And aching hearts and empty arms,
To whom the world has lost its charms,
Long for loved voices, though they know
The white lips rest beneath the snow;
And where were peace and joy before
Are homes that will be homes no more;
For life and death, and woe and mirth
Dwell side by side o'er all the earth. But we will not 'mid shadows dwell,
But on the sunshine look as well.
No day so clouded but some light
Has cheered its darkness ere the night;
No life so cheerless but some rays
Of God's love light its darkest days.
And the old year much joy has brought,
And powers unseen much good have wrought.
And some have sought the path of right
Which leads from darkness into light,
Who long had wandered far astray,
And follow now the narrow way.
And all in some way have been blessed,
By many a wayside fount refreshed,
And pleasant memories of the past
Will linger long as life shall last;
And if some crosses have been given,
They serve as stepping-stones to Heaven. Sometimes we mourn in bitterness,
And sadly question why it is
That joy is always mixed with pain
And loved ones ne'er will come again.
The troubled spirit finds its rest
In the sweet answer, "God knows best."
For not a sparrow earthward falls
Without his notice, and through all
His wisdom and his love are shown;
He surely careth for his own. And now the old year's brightest hours
Have faded with the summer flowers;
May all its bitterness and woe
Be buried 'neath its winter's snow;
And chastened hearts, tried as by fire,
Rise in new strength, fresh zeal inspire;
Hope bid each doubting thought be gone,
And gird the New Year's armor on,
And labor still, for o'er the land
The ripe fields wait the reaper's hand. And labors past will not suffice
For present duty, when there lies
Within the reach of everyone
Work for the Master to be done.
Some heart to cheer 'mid toil and strife,
Someone to lead to the fount of life,
Some burden to bear for a weak one tried,
And a world to tell that Christ has died. The work is great, but our strength is sure,
And the hope of reward to those who endure.
Not all can be reapers on life's great plain,
But they can be gleaners of golden grain;
And the life that is richest in deeds of love
Shall be richer far in the home above—
Where we'll bring our sheaves to the Master's
feet
When the work he has given is all complete,
When the old years fade from mortal view,
And the years to come are forever new.
—Sarah E. Clough, in Woman at Work.