1872* New Yeafis Address, 1872,
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JANUARY 1st, 1872.
Again the months have gone their rounds,
And gray-beard Time has scored his last;
While onward still his chariot bounds
Over the ruins of the past.
Young January—the brightest born,
With snow-white locks and purple lips,
Comes with the blast of icy horn,
And diamonds on his finger tips.
Then February, with her chills
And drifting mists that dim the sun,
Her ice-seal'd rivers—frozen rills
And crowded snow-cars full of fun.
March glories in her piping gales
That burst the crystal seal of lakes ;
The barque he tosses—rends its sails,
While the mad storm its song awakes.
Then merry April warms the earth,
And here and there strews tender fiowers
That seem to wonder at their birth,
And glory in their snnny hours.
May—softest daughter of the Spring,
Then bids the fields and woods rejoice ;
The streams their song of freedom sing,
And every brooklet has a voice.
Then comes sween June with verdant wreath,
And blushes on her dimpling cheeks ;
Flowers are crush'd her feet beneath,
And love, in pleading accent, speaks.
July, in gossamer all clad,
Breathes fervid airs upon the fields;
The Sun shines forth—the Moon looks glad,
And Nature all her riches yields.
August ascends her russet throne,
The vines their purple treasures yield ;
With blushing fruit the orchards groan,
And golden grain waves in the field.
And then September, with her dews,
Her ripened fruit and falling leaves,
Grives to the woods her varied hues,
The while her vapory mist she weaves.
October clips the ripened corn,
Touches the leaves with magic shades,
Wakes on the hill the hunter's horn
That starts the wild deer from the glades.
November, with her chilly breath
And diamond dews, comes sadly forth ;
He sings the lingering flowers to death
With breathings from the frigid North.
Then mad December—last of the brood,
With frosty locks and glittering form,
Sweeps over mountain, plain and flood,
And guides the demon of the storm.
With his last howl the year expires,
The tongue of Time peals out its knell;
Then gather round your cheerful fires,
And tales of past experience tell.
Still groans the South beneath the lash
That hirelings wield on every side ;
While galling chains in prisons clash,
And rights of freemen are denied.
Down-trodden—yet, with soul unstained,
Our brave old State still holds her own ;
Though poor—(she lost what Bullock gain'd,)
She fattens even on the bone.
A Happy New Year to ye all,
Patrons and friends, both great and small';
Plenty of blessings and rich stores
That never clog the poor man's doors.
Be yours a merry heart 'mid all
The griefs that now our land befall;
May every wish be gratified,
The bonds of Friendship stronger tied ;
Domestic pleasures never cease,
And life a long, long day of peace.
The Carrier, through rain jogs on,
Through biting winds or burning sun,
Like Atlas, makes his weary track
With the world resting on his back,
And gives you news from foreign parts,
Tales, essays, poetry and arts.
All who can read are made his debtors ;
Although respectful to his betters,
Still—is there one who will not say
That he is welcome—in his way?
He has his wants ; warm clothes and wood,
Perhaps a little extra food,
For—'tis the feasting season—so,
Some of your surplus change bestow.
THE CARRIER.