Эрнест Чарльз Джонс (Ernest Charles Jones)

New Year's Eve

DARKNESS on the endless sea;
            A wild, wild wailing cry;
And the sun came down—like a fiery frown
            Cast from a god on high.

        A barque stood o'er the shadowy tide,
            All shattered, pale and dim,
With a countless crew—and such freightage too,
            That it sunk to its gunwale rim.

        A steersman gaunt sat at the helm,
            A weird, wild phantom form;
His hand like a shade on the rudder was laid,
            And he steered in the face of the storm.

        His changeless eye on the changeless sea;
            The crew around him heard;
But they stifled their breath—with the power of Death,
            For their terror could find not a word.

        And the sea-roar fell—with a sullen swell,
            On their hearts in a palpable fear,
        For the name of the sea—was Eternity,
            And the barque was the sinking Year.
The crowd seemed each moment to gather and grow,
And the foundering vessel to labour more low,
For the throngs on its deck were the millions of man,
The freightage it carried deed, prospect, and plan,
        And Time was the spirit to steer.

    Hark! to whirlwind-trumpet blast,
    The wave-hosts, singing as they passed,
        Their phalanx closed amain;
    From black cloud-batteries, thunder-riven,
    The forked artillery of heaven
        Poured downward like a rain.

        From the dark shroud dies the blast,
        Sinks the pennon from the mast,
        Leans the vessel o'er the wave,
        Like warrior gazing on his grave.
The moon stands over the desolate shore,
A wave-herd, counting her sea-flock o'er—
And at times she descends the cloud-ladder of night,
Walking the deep in a mist of light,
And striking its waters when wearied to rest,
With her ivory wand on their thousand-fold crest;
And the heavy march of the billows fell,
As they counted the seconds with roll and swell—
Till the vessel sank, like a dream o'erfraught,
With its mighty freightage of heart and thought,
        As the noon of night was knelling,
        From the waters heavily swelling,
            With a deep and sullen chime,
        And the stars the hours were telling,
        With silvery fingers dwelling
            On heaven, the dial of Time!

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