University of Virginia Library

Why should I hail thee, New-Year I canst thou give
Crush'd hopes to flourish—bid the dead to live?
At thine approach, how many hearts beat high!
And thousands welcome thee, that low must lie
E'er thy short race be run: But vain, alas,
To muse on what I am—on what I was
When smil'd the last New-Year, and I, deceived,
The flattering, faithless promiser believed!
Oh, still I see that morning as it rose,
That happy day, but happiest in its close:
Then calm as evening all our cares retire,
The lamp well trimm'd, and brighter stirr'd the fire;
With him, the sharer and imparter too
Of all my happiness—nor slight, nor few,
The joys domestic converse doth impart;
The world may feed the mind, not fill the heart,—
I sat, time flew, nor heeded we how fast—
To judge the future we reviewed the past,
Its changes various, sudden turns of fate,
Where rise the little, or where sink the great,
As virtue's healthful blossoms life dispense,
Or vice exhales its noxious pestilence;—
We mark'd each nation's progress, and how far
She wav'd the wand of peace, the sword of war.
Then some bold drama we admired, but blamed;
Or private tragedies compassion claimed.—
Their woes we knew; but here the diff'rence lies,
Our own we feel—on their's philosophize:
I said, we feel—and yet that phrase how poor
To paint the anguish minds are formed t' endure!
Oh, there are feelings never can be told,
And there are thoughts no language could unfold,
And there are sorrows that the heart must bear,
Its sole complaint the agonizing tear!
Light griefs may court discussion, and the mind,
Unburthened of their weight, new pleasure find;
Not so the broken heart, it sits alone,
Unseen its rankling wound, unheard its groan.
And thus the brawling brook the sun soon dries;
The lake's deep bosom calm, but cold, still lies.

How rich are Time and Death with spoils of mine!
Nor, plaintive Young, were such complainings thine–
For more than “thrice” th' unerring shaft hath fled
And more than “thrice” we've watch'd the dying bed;
The King of Terrors seemed no passing guest,
And every age, alike, at his behest,
Was wrapp'd in darkness—till I scarce may fear
The whirling changes of the coming Year.
The past hath rendered all its threat'nings vain,
Nor are we rifled when there's nought to gain!

And is there nothing? Oh! indulgent heaven,
Forgive my murmurings—yes, there's blessings given—
My babes, my hope, my joy, are left to share
The solitary home and frugal fare;
Their smiles, this heart still owns, can pleasure give,
For them I will be calm, for them will live;
And He, who stills the raven's clamorous brood,
He will protect, and He bestow their food.
Th' unfeeling world may pass nor whisper peace,
Yet will his tender mercies never cease:
He smiles—our icy sorrows melt away,
As winter softens at the breath of May—
And yet, O God of truth, my prayer to Thee
Is not for pleasure, but tranquillity.
When felt is poverty, neglect, or scorn,
Teach me to bear—my Saviour all hath borne!
But grant Thou this, when time's bleak storms are o'er,
In heaven, a family, we meet once more,
And spend the ever-new, eternal Year,
Nor pain, nor death, nor separation fear.