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Lo! the Year now retires,
The sad Old Year, like a king from his throne;
And, fated, he sinks, unwept and alone,
To the grave of his sires.


Yet he bears in his hand
A scroll of sweet memories traced with a tear--
Thoughts which come back to the heart like a seer
From the dark Silent Land.


The decrees of his reign
Enshrined let us cherish, though summoned to part
With friends whom we loved, the wealth of the heart,
In the vale of the slain.


Yet we sigh for the years
Which Hope has begemmed with promises bright,
And wait, though they come not, save with the night
Of the grave and with tears.