CARRIER'S ADDRESS OF THE VICKSBURG BUSINESS CHRONICLE, JANUARY 1, 1876.[1]
The Western sun behind the hills Sank on his bed of gold;The wind wailed from the Eastward, With a sobbing drear and cold.The misty veil of shadows Gathered, mantle-like, around,Till midnight, with its silent tread, Crept o'er the darkened ground.The last, last day of all the year Has closed its weary eye—Has fallen in a dreamless sleep Beneath a wintry sky.
And how have we, who stand to-night Beside its lowly grave,—How have we used the gifts it brought— The treasures that it gave?
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- ↑ Written in the space of two hours,
