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Now the good old Year is dead and gone
To the grave of the Past, forever borne.
I heard last night his awful knell
Knolled gloomily by the midnight bell;
And I saw his hearse creep darkly by;
And the blackened pall on his coffin lie;
Then deepened the midnight's shadowy gloom!
And thus the good Year passed to his tomb!


Now ere we welcome the newborn year
Let us give to the Past one tribute tear;
Let us look once more on his pallid face--
One parting look, for a moment's space,
Ere the crumbling sod of the valley hide
The aged year which last night died;
For soon, very soon do men forget
Their friends upon whom Death's seal is set.


Cans't thou number the blessings, the past year shed,
With a liberal hand upon thine head!
Oh! number rather the stars that burn
With a blaze of light, by the moon's red urn;
Or the yellow sands of the sparkling sea;
Or the twinkling leaves of the wild wood-tree.
Thou can'st not number the blessings strewn,
By that prodigal year, now past and gone.


And let us bid to the coming year,
A hearty, and happy welcome here.
We know not whether its latest day
Will find us sorrowing, or find us gay,
We know not whether in weal or woe,
In health or in sickness, we do not know.
Perchance, we may still on our journey plod;
Perchance, we may lie 'neath the churchyard sod;
To this earth we may then no more belong,
Our names forgot, like a 'passing song.'