EVENING, 1879 - MORNING, 1880.

THE year is dying, - while steady, sure, and slow,

His last few solemn seconds lingering go,

I watch the clock's stern fingers ply,

Until they pass the midnight by,

And twelve swift strokes tell Time's relentless flow.

Little, I fear, of good my year can show:

I planted naught, - we reap but what we sow;

No tears regretful dim my eye,

Though he is dying.

To me he brought but little else than woe;

Trouble and pain alone to him I owe;

Others may mourn a friend, but I

Rejoice to see his moments fly.

'T is almost time! The new year comes, and, lo!

The old year's dead!