The Dying Year
by John Irving Pearce
Ring bells! oh, ring bells!
For the dying year-
Dawn cometh swiftly;
Death low-hovers near.
Wake! O ye echoes
Of the days long o'er!
Harbingers mytic
Of days now before.
Though many flowers
Ne'er can bloom again,
Though many hours might
Brighter far have been;
Weep not; Oh! weep not!
Other buds will come;
New loves will blossom
In some fairer home.
Let no regrettings
Mar the peaceful close;
Wrap in oblivion
All your weary woes.
Dream on; Oh, dream on!
Through the misty past,
Mingling hope's smiles with
Mem'ry's tears at last
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