Strait was the way, thorn-set and long--
Ah, tell us, shining there,
Is fame as wonderful as song?
And laurels in your hair!
A NEW YEAR LETTER
_To Two Friends married in the New Year_
(TO. MR. AND MRS. WELCH)
Another year to its last day,
Like a lost sovereign, runaway,
Tips down the gloomy grid of time:
In vain to holloa, 'Stop it! hey!'--
A cab-horse that has taken fright,
Be you a policeman, stop you may;
But not a sovereign mad with glee
That scampers to the grid, perdie,
And not a year that's taken flight;
To both 'tis just a grim good night.
But no! the imagery, say you,
Is wondrous witty--but not true;
For the old year that last night went
Has not been so much lost as spent:
You gave it in exchange to Death
For just twelve months of happy breath.
It was a ticket to admit
Two happy people close to sit--
A 'Season' ticket, one might say,
At Time's eternal passion play.
O magic overture of Spring,
O Summer like an Eastern King,
O Autumn, splendid widowed Queen,
O Winter, alabaster tomb
Where lie the regal twain serene,
Gone to their yearly doom.
But all you bought with that spent year,--
Ah, friends! it was as nothing, was it?
Nothing at all to hold compare
With what you buy with this New Year.
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