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And thus thy memory is to me

Like some enchanted far of isle

In some tumultuous sea.

But to show, in general, what I mean by accusing Mr. Longfellow of imitation, I collate his "Midnight Mass for the Dying Year" with "The Death of the Old Year" of Tennyson.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

Yes, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared,

Death, with frosty hand and cold,

Plucks the old man by the beard,

Sorely, — sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;

Caw, caw, the rooks are calling;

It is a sound of wo,

A sound of wo!

Through woods and mountain-passes

The winds, like anthems, roll;

They are chanting solemn masses,

Singing, Pray for this poor soul,

Pray, — pray!

And the hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain,

And patter their doleful prayers;

But their prayers are all in vain,

All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,

A king, — a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! His last! O, the old man gray,

Loveth her ever soft voice

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith —

To the voice gentle and low,

Of the soft air like a daughter's breath,

Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies;

No stain from its breath is spread

Over the glassy skies,

No mist nor stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan,

Like the voice of one who crieth

In the wilderness alone,

Vex not his ghost!

Then comes, with an awful roar,

Gathering and sounding on,

The storm-wind from Labrador,

The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest.

Sweep the red leaves away!

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,

O soul! could thus decay,

And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,

There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast,

Like red leaves be swept away!

Kyrie Eleyson!

Christie Eleyson!

[Centered across the full page:]

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,

And the winter winds are wearily sighing;

Toll ye the church-bell sad and low,

And tread softly, and speak low,

For the old year lies a dying.

Old Year, you must not die,

You came to us so readily,

You lived with us so steadily,

Old Year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move;

He will not see the dawn of day;

He hath no other life above —

He gave me a friend, and a true, true love,

And the New Year will take 'em away.

Old Year, you must not go,

So long as you have been with us,

Such joy as you have seen with us,

Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim;

A jollier year we shall not see;

But though his eyes are waxing dim,

And though his foes speak ill of him,

He was a friend to me.

Old Year you shall not die;

We did so laugh and cry with you,

I've half a mind to die with you,

Old Year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,

But all his merry quips are o'er;

To see him die, across the waste

His son and heir doth ride post haste,

But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own;

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New Year, blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! Over the snow

I heard just now the crowing cock.

The shadows flicker to and fro:

The cricket chirps: the light burns low:

'Tis nearly one o'clock.

Shake hands before you die;

Old Year, we'll dearly rue for you,

What is it we can do for you?

Speak out before you die.

His face is glowing sharp and thin —

Alack! our friend is gone!

Close up his eyes; tie up his chin;

Step from the corpse and let him in

That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

I have no idea