LINES ON THE NEW YEAR.

JANUARY 1, 1825.

1

FLEETLY hath past the year. The seasons came

Duly as they are wont-the gentle Spring,

And the delicious Summer, and the cool,
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,

And Winter, like an old and hoary man,
Frosty and stiff-and so are chronicled.

We have found beauty in the new green leaf,

And in the first blown violets; we have drunk

Cool water from the rock, and in the shade

Sunk to the noon-tide slumber;-we have eat

The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,

And girded to our pleasant wanderings

When the cool wind came freshly from the hills ;

And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves
Had faded from its glory, we have sat

By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced

Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.

"God hath been good to us!" "Tis He whose hand

Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out

The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun
And ordereth the starry influences,

And tempereth the keenness of the frost-
And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM

Have praises for the well completed year.

LINES ON THE NEW YEAR.

JANUARY 1, 1826.

WINTER is come again. The sweet south-west
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound

By the frost fetter. There is not a sound,
Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams,

And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odours out,

And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe

With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!

God made his ministry a silent one,

And he has given him a foot of stee

And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses-and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of his hand. Look up!
And it shall be interpreted. Your home
Hath a temptation now.
There is no voice
Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets, and upon the hills
There are no sunny places to lie down.
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire
Wait for the offices of love, and hear
Accents of human tenderness, and feast
Your eye upon the beauty of the young.
It is a season for the quiet thought,

And the still reckoning with thyself. The year
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time
Whispers the history of its vanished hours;

And the heart, calling its affections up,

Counteth its wasted treasure.

Life stands still

And settles like a fountain, and the eye

Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all That stirred its troubled waters. It is well

That Winter with the dying year should come!