{475}

NEW YEAR'S EVE

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new; Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the n.o.bler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing l.u.s.t of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

--_Alfred Tennyson_.

{476}

ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord G.o.d made them all.

Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colors, He made their tiny wings.

The purple-headed mountains, The river running by, The morning and the sunset That lighteth up the sky.

The tall trees in the greenwood, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden, He made them everyone.

He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is G.o.d Almighty, Who hath made all things well.

--_John Keble_.

{477}

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his l.u.s.trous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn.

While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

{478}

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, n.o.bler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown sh.e.l.l by life's unresting sea!

--_Oliver Wendell Holmes_.

Used by the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

{479}{480}

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE CHILDREN OF THE Sh.e.l.l By Murillo (1618-1682)

This is one of the famous pictures of the great artist Murillo. The little child John is giving the little Jesus a drink from a sh.e.l.l.

"The child nature is charmingly portrayed, so innocent and gentle--seeming to suggest a lovable nature in the artist himself.

His pictures always arouse the reverential feeling--which puts the stamp of artistic greatness upon them."

[End ill.u.s.tration]

{481}

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; {482}

Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

--_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_.