new-year's day.
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:
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:
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