The Old Year and the New.

Low at my feet there lies to-night
    A crushed and withered rose;
Within its heart of fading red
    No crimson fire glows;
For o'er its leaves the frost of death
    Steals like an icy breath;
And soon 't will vanish from my sight,
    A thing of gloom and death.

Ah! beauteous flower, once thou wert
    My pleasure and my pride;
And now when thou art old and worn
    I will not turn aside;
But gently o'er thy faded leaves
    I'll shed one kindly tear;
That thou wilt know, though dead and gone,
    To memory thou art dear.

Before my gaze there lies to-night
    A rose-bud fresh and fair;
And like the breath of dewy morn
    Its fragrance scents the air.
This fragile flower I fain would pluck
    With hand most kind yet bold;
And watch its petals day by day
    Their shining wealth unfold.

And soon 'twill be my very own
    To keep forevermore:
This flower that bloomed for me alone
    Upon a heavenly shore.
God grant my hands may guard it well
    And keep it pure and fair;
For angel hands have gathered it
    And placed it in my care.

Then fare thee well, thou dying year,
    Thou art my withered rose;
And on the stem where once thou wert,
    Another flower grows;
Yet fear thee not, when thou are dead,
    To thee I'll still be true;
And 'mid the joys of other years
    I still will think of you.