December Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

Farewell to thee, December!—thou art bearing on thy blast
The fleeting moments of the year—how very near the last;
Eldest of many brethren thou, soon, soon must meet thy doom,
Yet none seem mourning for thee now, thus hastening to thy tomb.
The yule log blazeth brightly, and the young are hopeful—glad,
They hail the merry Christmas hearth, with holly branches clad;
The games they loved are acted o'er, and still they dream anew
Of other years futurity for them may bring to view.
Theirs is the hour of happiness, when hope first taketh wing,
And soars aloft on eagle's flight—still, still unwavering;
Their bows are all unbroken,—Grief's finger hath not not pressed
Upon their hearts, with icy chill, and woke their dreamless rest.
Thou bringest man a deeper joy—he sees around his board
The fair young olive branches bloom, with buds of beauty stored;
He looketh for the coming year, maturer visions rise
Before the mirror expectation brings the worldly wise.
Age vieweth thee more calmly, and thy moments they pass by,
Perhaps but lightly noticed by dull pain's lack-lustre eye;
The chain which bound their spirits here is still more loosely cast
Around the wintry hours which draw them nearer to their last.
The poet hath a different gaze—a tear he gives to thee;
Thy waning phantom hath its charms, though mournful they may be;
Thy ghostlike form still conjures up some thought, some dear delight,
And marks thy latest moments with a flash of torchlike light.
I too have had some hours with thee, thou pale and wasted year!—
Hours od'rous with summer-flowers, though gem'd by mem'ry's tear;
Have caught at times the poet's lyre, have knelt before his shrine,
Alas! it own'd no stranger's touch—the tear alone was mine.
Farewell, farewell December!—ere perhaps another year
The sun may gild with ev'ning rays my cold and silent bier;
This throbbing heart may be at rest, its fever'd pulses o'er,
And thou and I forgotten be, where time exists no more.