Classic Poem

I.

Come hither, love, come hither,
And sit you down by me;
And hither run, my little one,
And climb upon my knee.
But bring the flagon first, my love,
And fill to friends and foes,
And let the old year dash his beard
With wine before he goes.

II.

Oh, do you not remember
The night we let him in,
The creaking signs, the windy blinds,
The universal din; —
The melancholy sounds which bade
The poor old year adieu;
The sudden clamour and the bells
That welcomed in the new?
He brought to us a world of hope
Beneath his robe of snows: —
Then let the old year dash his beard
With wine before he goes.

III.

Oh, then the year was young and fair,
And loved all joyful things;
And under his bright mantle hid
The warning of his wings.
And you remember how the Spring
Beguiled him to her bowers; —
How Summer next exalted him
Unto her throne of flowers; —
And how the reaper, Autumn, crowned
Him 'mid the sheaves and shocks, —
You still may see the tangled straws
In his disordered locks.
The yellow wheat, the crimson leaves,
With purple grapes, were there;
Till, Bacchus-like, he wore the proof
Of plenty 'mid his hair —
A proof that wooes in harvest-homes
Brown Labour to repose: —
Then let the old year dash his beard
With wine before he goes.

IV.

But soon the Winter came and took
His glory quite away:
A frosty rime o'erspread his chin,
And all his hair went gray;
His crown has fallen to his feet,
And withers where he stands,
While some invisible horror shakes
The old man by the hands.
Oh, woo him from his cloud of grief
And from his dream of woes;
And bid the old year dash his beard
With wine before he goes.
V.

For he hath brought us some new friends,
And made the old more dear;
And shown how love may constant prove,
And friendship be sincere.
Though it may be some venomed tooth
Hath wrought against the file;
And though perchance a Janus' face
Hath cursed us with its smile: —
Come, fill the goblet till its rim
With Lethe overflows;
The year shall drown their memory
With wine before he goes.

VI.

But hark! a music nears and nears, —
As if the singing stars
Were driving closer to the earth
In their triumphal cars!
And hark! the sudden pealing crash
Of one who will not wait,
But flings into the ringing dark
Old Winter's crystal gate.
A sigh is on the midnight air, —
A ghost is on the lawn, —
The broken goblet strews the floor, —
The poor old year is gone!