new-year's day.
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?
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?
75
