 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
297
NEW-YEAR MUSINGS.
Another year of bloom and blight
Is dead, with darkness for a shroud—
Gone, like some phantom of the night,
Gone, like the shadow of a cloud.
Wild polar spirits chime a dirge,
And, mingling with the dreadful roar,
I hear old Ocean's angry surge
Beat time upon the frozen shore.
Is dead, with darkness for a shroud—
Gone, like some phantom of the night,
Gone, like the shadow of a cloud.
Wild polar spirits chime a dirge,
And, mingling with the dreadful roar,
I hear old Ocean's angry surge
Beat time upon the frozen shore.
Love, count thy jewels!—not a few
Have vanished from thy casket frail,
More false than diamonds of the dew,
Or rounded drops of summer hail.
Look, Hope! upon thy cherished flowers,
So bright of hue twelve moons ago!
May will not wake them with her showers,
Nor warm them with her genial glow.
Have vanished from thy casket frail,
More false than diamonds of the dew,
Or rounded drops of summer hail.
Look, Hope! upon thy cherished flowers,
So bright of hue twelve moons ago!
May will not wake them with her showers,
Nor warm them with her genial glow.
Ambition! what is left thee now,
Too proud to beg, too brave to moan?
Scorn points to thy dishonored brow—
Hate taunts a rival overthrown.
Mad builder on a treach'rous bank,
Washed by a fierce devouring stream,
How thy tall, misshapen towers sank,
Poor frame-work of a frantic dream!
Too proud to beg, too brave to moan?
Scorn points to thy dishonored brow—
Hate taunts a rival overthrown.
Mad builder on a treach'rous bank,
Washed by a fierce devouring stream,
How thy tall, misshapen towers sank,
Poor frame-work of a frantic dream!
Ho! Avarice! halt a little while,
And hold communion with thyself—
But banish that complacent smile
While gloating o'er ill-gotten pelf.
Thy poor allottery of time
Is drawing near its darkening close,
And awful is old age when crime
Gleams, hell-like, through its gath'ring snows.
And hold communion with thyself—
But banish that complacent smile
While gloating o'er ill-gotten pelf.
298
Is drawing near its darkening close,
And awful is old age when crime
Gleams, hell-like, through its gath'ring snows.
Give back to Woe the little all
Wrung by thy hard, exacting hand;
The king of hearse and night-black pall
Will not be bribed by golden sand.
Give back to Want the lowly shed,
By law-craft and its wiles made thine;
Give back, extortioner, the bread
For which her pleading orphans pine.
Wrung by thy hard, exacting hand;
The king of hearse and night-black pall
Will not be bribed by golden sand.
Give back to Want the lowly shed,
By law-craft and its wiles made thine;
Give back, extortioner, the bread
For which her pleading orphans pine.
Children of grandeur! know ye not,
While merry over Christmas cheer,
That, weary of their wretched lot,
A beggar'd crowd were starving near;
That mothers, while chill night came on,
To garrets, dens, and cellars crept,
And found the last poor fagot gone,
While shivering infants round them wept?
While merry over Christmas cheer,
That, weary of their wretched lot,
A beggar'd crowd were starving near;
That mothers, while chill night came on,
To garrets, dens, and cellars crept,
And found the last poor fagot gone,
While shivering infants round them wept?
Votaries of mirth! were ye aware,
While moving in the graceful dance
To notes of some enlivening air,
And warmed by beauty's beaming glance,
That Genius, with his bleeding feet,
And war with famine doomed to wage,
Was wandering, homeless, in the street,
Rejected by a coward age?
While moving in the graceful dance
To notes of some enlivening air,
And warmed by beauty's beaming glance,
That Genius, with his bleeding feet,
And war with famine doomed to wage,
Was wandering, homeless, in the street,
Rejected by a coward age?
To Worth give not a groat away—
The public goose let Barnum carve:
Enrich the humbugs of to-day,
But let the heirs of Fulton starve.
Give the poor soldier, maimed in fight,
Allowance scant of bitter bread,
But thousands, in a single night,
To some famed cantatrice instead.
The public goose let Barnum carve:
Enrich the humbugs of to-day,
But let the heirs of Fulton starve.
Give the poor soldier, maimed in fight,
Allowance scant of bitter bread,
299
To some famed cantatrice instead.
Let Valor in his nameless grave
Commingle with ensanguined mould;
The surplus of your earnings save
To load Jack Harlequin with gold.
The passport of the “Upper Ten,”
Though borne by knave, or downright fool,
Must be obeyed by vulgar men,
For fashion, not the sage, should rule.
Commingle with ensanguined mould;
The surplus of your earnings save
To load Jack Harlequin with gold.
The passport of the “Upper Ten,”
Though borne by knave, or downright fool,
Must be obeyed by vulgar men,
For fashion, not the sage, should rule.
Another pilgrim, faint and worn,
Has reached the caverns of the Past,
While Winter winds his icy horn,
And trooping demons ride the blast.
To some he brought a golden shower,
Sweet bridal joys, and home-delights;
Pearls, wrested from the clutch of power,
Bright happy days, and peaceful nights:
Has reached the caverns of the Past,
While Winter winds his icy horn,
And trooping demons ride the blast.
To some he brought a golden shower,
Sweet bridal joys, and home-delights;
Pearls, wrested from the clutch of power,
Bright happy days, and peaceful nights:
To others he has brought despair,
And wreck upon the stormy waves;
Flight from oppression's bloody lair—
Chains, scaffolds, broken hearts, and graves.
But, Hungary, thy chosen chief
Will back in arms ere long return;
The skies give promise of relief—
Air is alive with voices stern:—
And wreck upon the stormy waves;
Flight from oppression's bloody lair—
Chains, scaffolds, broken hearts, and graves.
But, Hungary, thy chosen chief
Will back in arms ere long return;
The skies give promise of relief—
Air is alive with voices stern:—
The northern bear his brood may wake,
But they shall gnaw thy heart no more;
But on his own grim carcass make,
When roused the pack, a meal of gore.
Back, savage, to thy deserts dread,
Where night her umbrage loves to fling!
The British Lion lifts his head—
The Western Eagle flaps his wing.
But they shall gnaw thy heart no more;
But on his own grim carcass make,
When roused the pack, a meal of gore.
Back, savage, to thy deserts dread,
Where night her umbrage loves to fling!
The British Lion lifts his head—
The Western Eagle flaps his wing.
300
And, Poland, may this new-born year
Thy glad redemption usher in,
While perish, smit with mortal fear,
The vassals of anointed sin.
Walk, tyrant, with a guarded tread—
Let not your pulse too proudly beat!
The heavens are darkening overhead,
And earth is mined beneath your feet.
Thy glad redemption usher in,
While perish, smit with mortal fear,
The vassals of anointed sin.
Walk, tyrant, with a guarded tread—
Let not your pulse too proudly beat!
The heavens are darkening overhead,
And earth is mined beneath your feet.
Though shades of martyrs haunt thy shore,
Isle of the blue, embracing sea!
There is deliverance in store,
A place in freedom's hall for thee.
Thy tears of blood shall yet be dried,
Thy funeral sackcloth thrown away,
While robed in splendor, like a bride,
The beams of joy around thee play.
Isle of the blue, embracing sea!
There is deliverance in store,
A place in freedom's hall for thee.
Thy tears of blood shall yet be dried,
Thy funeral sackcloth thrown away,
While robed in splendor, like a bride,
The beams of joy around thee play.
Another wave upon the beach
Has dashed its freight of good and ill;
Our hands abroad we vainly reach,
In quest of those whose hearts are still.
Another mile-stone we have gained—
The goal of rest is drawing nigh,
And sadly is the vision pained
By pictures that once charmed our eye.
Has dashed its freight of good and ill;
Our hands abroad we vainly reach,
In quest of those whose hearts are still.
Another mile-stone we have gained—
The goal of rest is drawing nigh,
And sadly is the vision pained
By pictures that once charmed our eye.
Oh! sooner rake in ashes cold
For letters that have fed the blaze,
Than seek to find the bliss of old,
The transports of our younger days
Enough, though hushed the voice of glee,
If in our breasts contentment calm
Sits, like a halcyon on the sea,
Dispensing an oblivious balm.
For letters that have fed the blaze,
Than seek to find the bliss of old,
The transports of our younger days
Enough, though hushed the voice of glee,
If in our breasts contentment calm
Sits, like a halcyon on the sea,
Dispensing an oblivious balm.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |