Pale blossom of the parting year, 
Arrayed in simple spotless gear, 
Gemming the drear earth with thy bloom, 
Our welcome hath no gladness ; 
For thought, from the surrounding gloom, 
Hath borrowed tinge of sadness. 
Thou hast a taie of by-gone hours, 
A taie of withered Summer flowers! 
To pensive thought, per chance, address’d. 
Thou tell’st of hours wasted ; 
Of joy’s bright wing that would not rest 
But soon to sorrow hasted. 
Of hope that, ’ere it blossomed, faded,— 
Of bright days oft by dark clouds shaded, 
Of happy hours too quickly past ; 
For earthly joys are fleeting ail. 
In vain we seek for such as last, 
And do not in enjoyment pall. 
Yet now, though darkness shroud the earth, 
To this drear hour we owe thy birth. 
Be thou, then, emblem, Winter’s flower, 
Of faith that brightens ’mid despair. 
What though the threatening tempest lower 
The Christians faith still blossoms fair ' 
