Hark! I hear the midnight bell,
Pealing forth its funeral knell;
Now its tones sound loud and clear--
Now low and dirge-like, strike the ear,
Solemn and slow, they seem to fall,
Upon the listening ear of all.

And lo! extended on the 'bier,
The form of the departed year
Closely wrapt, in snowy shroud,
Hastening to join the sable crowd
Of years--that passed before the flood,
And left their pathway stained with blood;
For oh, what horrors must appear,
Written on each departed year?
The fearful tales each will disclose,
The God of Heaven only knows.

Ardent and bright this year arose,--
Pictured its joys and hid its woes,
Painted gay paths bestrown with flowers,
And balmy skies, and sunny hours,
Promised some pleasures, ever new,
If pleasures' path we would pursue.
But soon the path became uptorn,
Instead of flowers we find the thorn:
And yonder sky, so blue and deep,
Where golden stars their vigils keep,--
Was soon by frowning clouds concealed;
And lightnings flash'd, and thunders peal'd