 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
247
THE NEW YEAR.
“Well, well, here's Monsieur Tonson come again!”
We cry, as Time, once more, his twelve moons past,
Wheels round to mind us of the waning years.
Persistent Time!—no failure e'er attends
The movement of his car, and, promptly run,
He holds his hand for dues that we must pay;—
For all owe dues to Time, confest or not.
If not confest, he full reprisal makes,
And those who cunningly essay to cheat,
Pay ofttimes doubly for the debt they'd fly.
The thinning hair, the failing sight, the teeth
Fast crumbling to an ever “aching void,”
Attest the claims of Time; and that they're paid,
Ask Messrs. Cocoaine, Spectacles & Bone,
Whose aid supplies the draft that Time has made!
There is no stay for Time,—that queer old man,—
Whose zeal ne'er wearies, and whose changing glass
Is ever running off the slippery hours;
Whose scythe, alas! is busy with our hopes,
Cutting our treasures down without remorse,
And giving them to Death!—a sacrifice
Priceless and peerless, and most worthy heaven.
Men are but motes upon the dial-plate
Moved over by the great hour-hand of Time,
Unchecking it, though huge they deem themselves,
Till from the verge they drop, in senseless dust,
Whilst yet the everlasting hand moves on!
How little are we in the mighty plan
Of God's ordaining! and 'tis haply given
The new-born year this lesson to impart,
And teach humility to those who vaunt;
Thus human Ossas, in their own conceit,
May dwindle to the real warts they are!
We cry, as Time, once more, his twelve moons past,
Wheels round to mind us of the waning years.
Persistent Time!—no failure e'er attends
The movement of his car, and, promptly run,
He holds his hand for dues that we must pay;—
For all owe dues to Time, confest or not.
If not confest, he full reprisal makes,
And those who cunningly essay to cheat,
Pay ofttimes doubly for the debt they'd fly.
The thinning hair, the failing sight, the teeth
Fast crumbling to an ever “aching void,”
Attest the claims of Time; and that they're paid,
Ask Messrs. Cocoaine, Spectacles & Bone,
Whose aid supplies the draft that Time has made!
There is no stay for Time,—that queer old man,—
Whose zeal ne'er wearies, and whose changing glass
Is ever running off the slippery hours;
Whose scythe, alas! is busy with our hopes,
Cutting our treasures down without remorse,
And giving them to Death!—a sacrifice
Priceless and peerless, and most worthy heaven.
248
Moved over by the great hour-hand of Time,
Unchecking it, though huge they deem themselves,
Till from the verge they drop, in senseless dust,
Whilst yet the everlasting hand moves on!
How little are we in the mighty plan
Of God's ordaining! and 'tis haply given
The new-born year this lesson to impart,
And teach humility to those who vaunt;
Thus human Ossas, in their own conceit,
May dwindle to the real warts they are!
Would we reverse the plan, and roll the ball
Back on its axis, and restore the Past?
Such wishes have been, where the stricken soul
Mourned over time misspent it fain would mend;
Or where the selfish with their baubles played,
And grudged, at Time's approach, to lay them down.
Not so with those alive to Duty's call,
Forever active in the ways of life,
And living for the benefit of men.
They have no futile retrospective wish
For flesh-pots left far in the race behind;
Nor stand they idly by with folded hands
Whilst the great world spins round them like a top;
Nor look they back, like Mistress Lot, to find
Themselves transformed to worse than useless salt,
Savorless of all that gives, to living, life!
They'd not revoke a day, but keep their souls
Timed by the present and the future need,
And, like a watch that's wound up with the sun,
Would break in ruin if we'd turn them back.
Back on its axis, and restore the Past?
Such wishes have been, where the stricken soul
Mourned over time misspent it fain would mend;
Or where the selfish with their baubles played,
And grudged, at Time's approach, to lay them down.
Not so with those alive to Duty's call,
Forever active in the ways of life,
And living for the benefit of men.
They have no futile retrospective wish
For flesh-pots left far in the race behind;
Nor stand they idly by with folded hands
Whilst the great world spins round them like a top;
Nor look they back, like Mistress Lot, to find
Themselves transformed to worse than useless salt,
Savorless of all that gives, to living, life!
They'd not revoke a day, but keep their souls
Timed by the present and the future need,
249
Would break in ruin if we'd turn them back.
And thus the New Year finds us, well content
With what is done, and ready to begin anew,
And strive, as we have striven, the year just fled,
To make those happy, as we wished them so.
With what is done, and ready to begin anew,
And strive, as we have striven, the year just fled,
To make those happy, as we wished them so.
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