Poems (E. L. F.)/New-year's day
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NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1843,
This day may bear to some an aspect bright,
Of blushing hopes, or realised delight;
Or wake the heart from griefs that now must lie
In the long vista of eternity.
There seems a newness in all living things—
A very freshness that the season brings.
Friend meets with friend, and lends the list'ning ear
To the heart's promise of a brighter year.
And when the heart is young in voiceless care,
And no deep sorrow lurks in anguish there—
And youthful hope absorbs each transient ray
Of earth's rare loveliness, the bright and gay—
And friendship's smile, that sunshine of the heart,
That still will linger on as years depart—-
When relatives, the loved ones and the dear,
Are all around, the blissful heart to cheer—
When Death hath owned no fellowship with thine,
Thy lot on earth hath been a lot divine—
Then mayest thou bless this year as other years,
With lip of joy, and eye undimmed by tears,
And give to God a heartfelt song of praise,
And trust his power in yet unborn days.
Yet there are some to whom this day may bring
No voice of gladness, and no second spring—
Whose hopes have fled like visions of the night,
Too void, unreal, for earth's searching light—
Whose fondest wishes fade and fall away,
The cherished blossoms of a summer day—
On whom misfortune bends with chilly eye,
To freeze the soul in one bleak agony.
To live, to know and feel this cherish'd life,
Is but one heartless, aimless, weary strife
Of joy and sadness, ennui and gloom—
A trembling shadow, hov'ring o'er the tomb.
To those who feel this wreck of soul, to-day
Is but a stage of misery on their way;
And to move onward, fretted, feverish still,
Is the first impulse of creative will.
Oh! there is mercy in the moving power,
That gives no second acting of an hour:
There is no pause in time, the present's past
Ere we one thought have o'er its briefness cast.
We would not wish to live, oh, not again!
A life so checkered with disease and pain,
With grief and sadness,—even hope and joy
Are dear-bought treasures of the heart's alloy.
The very brightest, gayest, of earth's blest,
Would tell the tale, if truth were all confest.
And thus, as years fleet by in swift array,
'Tis but the short'ning of our fitful day.
Oh! let us prize the present, passing hour,
Brief as the beauty of a summer flower;
The future is a mystery asleep—
The hidden treasure of an unknown deep;
In vain we think to reach, in vain to scan,
The wonder-workings of the coming plan.
How strange is man! how strange the human heart!
Where bright emotions live but to depart,
And earnest hopes but rear their head and die,
Entombed by fate in sad adversity.
Why seek for joy, that evanescent thing,
Whose beauty's gone if we but touch its wing?
And sister pleasure gilds but to betray
The phantom brilliance of a fitful day.
Contentment may be ours, if we but seek
The lasting treasures of its boundless keep;
'T will tame the eager soul, whose daily strife
Is the protracted misery of life,
And give to man a happiness secure,
That through long years of suffering will endure,
And sweeten life; while, to the lonely heart,
'T will be the sunshine of its better part.
Yet let us hope and trust this year may bring,
Like the fair flow'rets of the coming spring,
A promise of much joy, and trust for ever
That Power, which blends our good and ill together.
Of blushing hopes, or realised delight;
Or wake the heart from griefs that now must lie
In the long vista of eternity.
There seems a newness in all living things—
A very freshness that the season brings.
Friend meets with friend, and lends the list'ning ear
To the heart's promise of a brighter year.
And when the heart is young in voiceless care,
And no deep sorrow lurks in anguish there—
And youthful hope absorbs each transient ray
Of earth's rare loveliness, the bright and gay—
And friendship's smile, that sunshine of the heart,
That still will linger on as years depart—-
When relatives, the loved ones and the dear,
Are all around, the blissful heart to cheer—
When Death hath owned no fellowship with thine,
Thy lot on earth hath been a lot divine—
Then mayest thou bless this year as other years,
With lip of joy, and eye undimmed by tears,
And give to God a heartfelt song of praise,
And trust his power in yet unborn days.
Yet there are some to whom this day may bring
No voice of gladness, and no second spring—
Whose hopes have fled like visions of the night,
Too void, unreal, for earth's searching light—
Whose fondest wishes fade and fall away,
The cherished blossoms of a summer day—
On whom misfortune bends with chilly eye,
To freeze the soul in one bleak agony.
To live, to know and feel this cherish'd life,
Is but one heartless, aimless, weary strife
Of joy and sadness, ennui and gloom—
A trembling shadow, hov'ring o'er the tomb.
To those who feel this wreck of soul, to-day
Is but a stage of misery on their way;
And to move onward, fretted, feverish still,
Is the first impulse of creative will.
Oh! there is mercy in the moving power,
That gives no second acting of an hour:
There is no pause in time, the present's past
Ere we one thought have o'er its briefness cast.
We would not wish to live, oh, not again!
A life so checkered with disease and pain,
With grief and sadness,—even hope and joy
Are dear-bought treasures of the heart's alloy.
The very brightest, gayest, of earth's blest,
Would tell the tale, if truth were all confest.
And thus, as years fleet by in swift array,
'Tis but the short'ning of our fitful day.
Oh! let us prize the present, passing hour,
Brief as the beauty of a summer flower;
The future is a mystery asleep—
The hidden treasure of an unknown deep;
In vain we think to reach, in vain to scan,
The wonder-workings of the coming plan.
How strange is man! how strange the human heart!
Where bright emotions live but to depart,
And earnest hopes but rear their head and die,
Entombed by fate in sad adversity.
Why seek for joy, that evanescent thing,
Whose beauty's gone if we but touch its wing?
And sister pleasure gilds but to betray
The phantom brilliance of a fitful day.
Contentment may be ours, if we but seek
The lasting treasures of its boundless keep;
'T will tame the eager soul, whose daily strife
Is the protracted misery of life,
And give to man a happiness secure,
That through long years of suffering will endure,
And sweeten life; while, to the lonely heart,
'T will be the sunshine of its better part.
Yet let us hope and trust this year may bring,
Like the fair flow'rets of the coming spring,
A promise of much joy, and trust for ever
That Power, which blends our good and ill together.