The Dirge Of The Passing Year. Poem by Henry Alford

Bring flowers--but not the gay,
The tender, nor the sweet;
But such as winter's chill winds lay
Faded and dank across the spray,
Or strew beneath the feet.

Bring flowers to strew the bier:
He will be ready soon;
Already are his beauties sere;
And the much--hailed, time--honoured year
To death is passing down.

He hath a warrior been;
And in the hallowed clime,
Where spiry rock and dark ravine
Guard the old cedar's solemn green,
Hath sped the march of Time.

He hath, in happy mood,
Turned priest, and charmed the spot
Where in her queenly womanhood
Our nation's hope betrothèd stood,
Blest beyond queenly lot.

And he hath bent in prayer
To the great God above,
In peril that dear life to spare,
And o'er that young and royal pair
To spread his shield of love.

He hath his voice upsent,
In minster and in aisle,
`Ye creatures of the dust, repent!
He comes to claim what He hath lent--
'Tis yet a little while!''

His duties have been hard,
Yet hath he done them well:
He smote not where he should have spared:
But where his God the victim bared,
His sword of justice fell.

The friend, the wife, the child--
Some took he, and some left;
He hath been cursed with curses wild--
Yet with his healing influence mild
Soothed he the soul bereft.

And he is dying now:
But yet once more again
Shall we behold him, not as now,--
But a dread form with awful brow,
Judging the sons of men.

Then will he tell his tale:
All hidden shall be shown;
Then will the iron--hearted quail,
The proud fall low, the strong man fail,
When all his words are known.

Then bring sweet flowers and gay,--
Of holy thought and deed;
Deck well his bier, that so we may
Look on him at that wrathful day
From fear and anguish free.