Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

NOW, while the Rear-Guard of the flying Year,

Rugged December, on the season’s verge,

Marshals his pale Days to the mournful dirge

Of muffled winds in far-off forests drear,

Good friend! turn with me to our in-door cheer;

Draw nigh, the huge flames roar upon the hearth,

And this sly sparkler is of subtlest birth,

And a rich vintage poet souls hold dear;

Mark how the sweet rogue wooes us! Sit thee down,

And we will quaff, and quaff, and drink our fill,

Topping the spirits with a Bacchanal crown,

Till the funereal blast shall wail no more,

But silver-throated clarions seem to thrill,

And shouts of triumph peal along the shore.