THE MASQUE OF THE YEAR. (Time is discovered seated in the midst of a bevy of maidens, each of whom represents a month.)

Behold me, Time, inexorable Time, Twin brother of Death. Like him all hearts I tame. As babes with baubles play, so I with fame. I weigh all deeds, judge every poet’s rhyme, Sift heroes, smile at life’s quaint pantomime, Put down the present great, and oft reclaim From sad oblivion some forgotten name, Uplifting it to heights that are sublime. I sit, amid the months, upon my throne, Waiting to greet the New Year drawing nigh, And though it brings a destiny unknown, Naught need ye fear, since God is in the sky. Fate is God’s choice; be therefore of good cheer. Let mirth and song welcome each new crowned year.

Far have I come, out of darkness, from chaos, The land of the future, dread realm unknown, Out of silence, alone. I have trodden the ice-fields of drear Baccalaos, Heard the grinding of bergs in the seas of the north As the gale urged them forth, And at midday have looked on the sun’s feeble glory With a smile of disdain, for the warmth that he felt Ne’er my bosom could melt. Death and stillness are mine, and, save wolves on a foray, All is still, all is shrouded, all Nature’s asleep, Under snow hidden deep. I am the ruler of uncreate chaos, Queen of absolute void, which life comes not anear— First month of the year.

I am the month of beginnings. I bear In my bosom the seed of all changes to come. As yet I am dumb, But Hope has been born in the breast of Despair. The pine boughs stir under their burden of snow, As though promise they know, Yet the sun shines no stronger, there’s naught that foretells The coming of summer. No song of a bird In the woodland is heard, Not a sound, save the stroke of the axe, as it fells Some wood king, whose form sinks beneath the keen blade, With a crash, through the glade; Yet the spirit of Nature’s awake, and the air Thrills with love. I soothe grief with my wonderful balm, Second month that I am.

I am the month of unrest and of yearning, Of wild and untamable hatred and love. I glide through the grove, Calling on Summer, so slow in returning. I seek for the fruit, bud, leaf, blossom and all. When they heed not my call, The winds I unleash, which, like hounds on the scent, Give voice round the farmsteads, and course o’er the moors, With a hundred detours, Till they leap on the forests, whose branches are rent. I heap up the snowdrifts, bind firmer the streams, And defy the sun’s beams. My heart throbs with hate, and all tenderness spurning, With winter again I span heaven’s blue arch. I am passionate March.

I am the month of transition. My breast Heaves with sweet, delicate hope, that beguiles Dreamy Earth into smiles. Through woodlands deserted I go on my quest, And summon the blood-root and shad-bush to flower Though they fade in an hour. I drop gentle rain on the faded, brown grasses, And loosen the soil for all tender, green shoots, To push up from their roots. I summon the birds, and where’er my foot passes, Sleeping Nature arouses itself at my call. I am helpful to all. While no ecstacy’s mine, I am never distressed, But tranquilly wander, to fate reconciled. I am April, the mild.

I am the month of gay Summer’s beginning, When earth with its verdure smiles up at the sky, And the mayflowers shy, And sun-loving blossoms, their way to light winning Through strewn leaves of autumn, mute emblems of death, Perfume with their breath, The zephyrs released from their fetters of frost. The streams murmur cheerily under their banks Their melodious thanks For sweet freedom regained, as they flow and are lost In the broad, sunny river, that rushes along To the sea, with a song. Chill Winter’s forgot, with its woe and its sinning. Youth leaps in my veins—I am young, I am gay— I am love-kindling May.

I am the month of sweet, virginal joy, When Earth, as the sun its first passion discloses, Blushes with roses, When all things are new, and nothing can cloy. The birds, in a cloudland of leafage concealed, By their songs are revealed. All is young, all is love. In the shadowy vales, In woodland and meadow, all Nature’s awake. At the wind’s kiss, the lake Breaks forth into smiles; but as yet passion fails To weary itself. Soul is searching for soul, And has not reached its goal. Life leaping to life doth each moment employ, And love doth all Nature’s grand chorus attune. I am virginal June.

I am the month of warm, passionate love, When Earth silent lies, with shy longings opprest, While soft sighs stir her breast. All unclasped is her zone, and the Sun’s warm lips prove Her lips ruby treasures, and make her soul his With many a kiss. I wander abroad in the murmurous hours, While the silvery moonbeams sift down on the scene, Rustling leafage between. I whisper of joy to the slumbering flowers, As, with petals close folded, like child hands in prayer, They rest on the air, And I drop cooling dews from the clear sky above On the moist brow of Earth, as still she doth sigh. I am July.

I am the month of sweet langour and dreaming. In the shadowy depths of the woods I recline, While afar stand the kine, Thoughtful, knee-deep, where cool waters are streaming Over the sands, and at hand, loud and clear, The cicada I hear. Afar, by the plunging green waves of the sea, I wander at times, when the shimmer of heat Disturbs my retreat; Or amid rugged crags, where the wind wanders free, I sit in the shelter of hills, by the brook That leaps forth from its nook Adown the swart cliff, with its silver spray gleaming, And I muse on the past with a rapturous sigh. Dreamy August am I.

I am the month that brings peace to the weary, The flush to the apple, the gold to the leaf, And the grain to the sheaf. I am the month that prepares for the dreary, Long days of midwinter, when Earth lies asleep Under snow hidden deep. After the yearning of Spring and the passion Of hot days of Summer, I cool the warm brow, And the seeds that the plough Gave to earth I give back, shaped in daintier fashion. At the touch of my hand every toiler forgets All life’s weeds and its frets, And the heart that was grieving becomes again cheery. When I rule, men no longer their sorrows remember. I am September.

I am the hush ere the coming of storm. I am the eventide, lulling to rest, Upon Earth’s kindly breast, Her offspring, the flowers, till they nestle up warm, Folding their leaves and their blossomy eyes Closing, child-wise. I warn the still woodland, that doffs its gay dress And upsprings, like a warrior armed for the fray, To meet the dread day When the Tempest’s huge shoulders against it shall press. I breathe to the streams the fell tidings, until Every bickering rill, With a tremor of fear, seaward hurls its lithe form In mad flight, ere with fetters the Ice King draws nigh. October am I.

I am the priestess of frost, and I bring The winds in my train. I am vestured in snow, And wherever I go The ice maidens deck me with jewels, and fling Crystal arches o’er streams that flow sombrely by Beneath the grey sky. Earth under my feet a soft carpeting spreads, And from valley and hill, as I pass on my rounds, There re-echo no sounds. The lean, famished forests bow down their high heads As among them I wander. The stars hold their breath As, dread omen of death, Flits the mystic aurora with rustling wing High above, and some meteor falls like an ember. I am November.

I am the month when worn Earth lies at rest Under the eiderdown snow, that clings close To her form in repose, As her gossamer drape to the virgin, whose breast Rises and falls as she dreams of her love. Through the keen air above The stars glow like watch-fires of summer. Anon Come the jingle of sleigh-bells, a laugh and a shout, As gay youth, in mad rout, Sweeps merrily down the white road, and is gone. Then silence returns, till the winds howl in glee, Or some frost-riven tree Shrieks aloud in its pain. Yet Earth sleeps, undistressed. All ended her task, she has naught now to fear, December is here.

I am here, I have come from the home of the morning; I am flushed with hope’s wine; I have treasures for all. The old year is sped, let it serve as a warning That the moments I bring shall bear fruit ere they fall. The past none can alter; its grief and its sinning Are writ for all time in the volume of life, But behold me, the New Year, new records beginning; Let love be their burden, not envy and strife.

Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell, Welcome to thy kingdom, O monarch pure and true! In gladness we will serve thee. Ah! rule this great earth well; Efface the sorrows of the past, and all past joys renew. We, the children of the sun, Who watch the precious moments run, Will wreathe thy brow with stars of snow and flowers sweet and fair. But while we sow the fruits of earth, That man shall garner in with mirth, To Time alone belongs the power Of harvesting each ripened hour. Welcome, welcome, with chime of merry bell! Another year is given to man to sow and reap his life. When next the mystic book is sealed, what story will it tell? Will it speak of love triumphant, will it tell of sin and strife? O mortal man, remember Every year has its December, And when the year has ended naught can change the record there.