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lirik lagu ghizela rowe - alfred austin - the passing of the century

how shall we comfort the dying year?
beg him to linger, or bid him go?
the light in his eyes burns dim and low
his hands are clammy, his pulse beats slow
he wanders and mumbles, but doth not hear
the lanes are sodden, the leaf~drifts sere
and the wrack is weaving his shroud of white
do you not see he is weary quite
of the languor of living, and longs for night?
lo! he is gone! now lower him down
in the snug~warm earth, ‘neath the clods of brown
and the buds of the winter aconite

how shall we part with thе bygone year?
cover with cyprеss, or wreathe with bay?
he will not heed what you do or say
he is deaf to to~morrow as yesterday
why do you linger about his bier?
he has gone to the ghostland, he is not here
we may go on our way, we may live and laugh
round the banqueting blaze can feast and quaff
the purple catafalque, stately staff
the dirges of sorrow, the songs of praise
and the costliest monument man can raise
are but for the spirit’s cenotaph
dust unto dust, he is dead, though he
was the last of the centuried years that flow
we know not wherefore, we never shall know
with the tide unebbing of time, and go
to the phantom shore of eternity
shadows to shadows, they flit and flee
across the face of the flaming sun
the vague generations, one by one
that never are ended, never begun
where is the dome or the vault so vast
as to coffin the bones of the perished past
save the limitless tomb of oblivion?

what tale would he tell, could the dead but speak?
“i was born, as i died, amid wrath and smoke
when the war~wains rolled, and the cannons spoke
when the vulture’s cry and the raven’s croak
flapped hungrily over the dying shriek
and nothing was seen but a blood~red streak
betwixt lowering sky and leaden main;
when slanted and slashed the rifles’ rain
upon furrows whose harvest were sheaves of slain;
when the levin’s glare by the thunder’s crash
was bellowed, and ever ‘twixt flash and flash
the howl of the unspent hurricane.”
let the dead discourse with the dead. so ask
how best now to welcome the new~born year
she is coming, is coming, and, lo! is here
with forehead and footstep that know not fear
she will shrink from no pleasure, evade no task
but there never was worn or veil or mask
like her frank fair face and her candid soul
do you fathom her thoughts, can you guess her goal
her waywardness chasten, her fate control?
she will wend with her doom, and that doom be ours;
so greet her with carol and snow~white flowers
and crown her with hope’s own aureole

yet mind her dawn of the dark, for she
she too must pass ‘neath the lych~gate porch;
and give to her keeping the vestal torch
that may ofttime smoulder, and sometimes scorch
but rebrightens and burns eternally:
the beacon on land and the planet at sea
when the night is murk, and the mist is dense
to guide us whither, remind us whence
the soul’s sure lamp through the shades of sense
she must tread the unknown the dead years trod;
though rugged the road, yet the goal is god
and the will of all~wise omnipotence

- lirik lagu ghizela rowe

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