NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1871.
[To THE EDITOR 07 TDB "SPECTATOR."] Sit,—I am sending this to you (a poem by my father, Francis Turner Palgrave, out of print for many years) on the chance that you should think it of interest to reprint in your New Year's issue of the Spectator. As you will see, it was written during the Franco-Prussian War, and it struck me as peculiarly apposite to the present attitude of France.—I am, Sir, &c.,
"We have look'd for thee long ;—and behold thee, Ice at the heart, tear frozen on tear ; Snowdrifts and sorrow the robes that enfold thee, O bitter New Year Thou art come ; and the light of thy morning Lurid arises and baleful and drear ; Blood-stain'd the world ; skies ruthless and scorning, O bitter New Year Oft of science and peace they have told us; Songs of advance too loud in our ear s War and red ravin and hatred enfold us In the bitter New Year Thou art come : and the breath of thy coming Scorches with carnage and freezes with fear; Flame at thy lips, but flame icy and numbing, 0 bitter New Year I For the mother is cold by the cradle, Babes in the bosom shrivell'd and sere ; Brides at the bridal for silver have sable In the bitter New Year.
And the young men of France in the trenches, Old men and infants are stiff on the bier :- Yet the brave heart of the land never blenches In the bitter New Year I From the fields of defeat and betrayal
Once more, when all appear'd lost, they are here; Once more enrank'd for thy dreadful assayal,
O bitter New Year
They may go like the thousands before them, Dying for France, the down-trodden, the dear o Yet on their deathbed her glory is o'er them In the bitter New Year.
Though the furnace be seven-fold heated, Forth will she leap, resplendent and clear : Purged of her dross, though forlorn and defeated In the bitter New Year I Till renew'd in the strength of her splendour, Purer and prouder her face she will rear ; And thou for each burden a blessing wilt render,
O bitter New Year I FaLwas T. PALGRATIC."
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