Elegy on the Thirty-first of December, MDCCLXXXVII

Yes, I will climb yon rough Rock's giddy height, That o'er the Ocean bends his brow severe;— And as I muse on TIME'S NEGLECTED FLIGHT, Wait the last sunshine of the parting Year!

Why do the winds so sadly seem to rave? Why broods such solemn horror o'er the deep? It is, that FANCY points the yawning grave;— And sick'ning, shudders at the pond'rous sleep!

For O! since LAST DECEMBER's hoary head Bow'd to Oblivion's wave, and sunk beneath, From this strange World what flutt'ring crowds are fled To throng the caverns of relentless Death!

And every transitory shade is lost, That in its course was fondly call'd "TO-DAY!" Spring's sweets are gone! and Summer's flow'ry boast! And Autumn's purple honours pass'd away!

And now, tho' WINTER, in rude mantle drest, Extends his icy sceptre o'er the plain! Soon shall he sink on APRIL's dewy breast! And laughing MAY shall re-assume her reign!

But MAN, when once his bright day's slush is o'er, And Youth's too-fleeting pleasures take their wing, Must on life's scene re-vegetate no more, But leap its gulph, to find a second Spring.

And can that something each man calls "HIMSELF," 'Midst this wide miracle of earth and sky, Waste the swift moments in the toil for pelf,— Nor raise one thought to Nature's Majesty;

On the Globe's surface creep, a grov'ling worm! Nor joy the noon-tide radiance to behold,— Nor trace the Mighty Hand that guides the storm,— But deem existence relative to gold?

Ah! since this awful Now remains for me, To think, to breathe, to wonder at the whole, To move, to touch, to taste, to hear, to see, To call the mystic consciousness, my Soul;

Fain would I seek a-while the sportive shade, Ere the scene close upon this doubtful state; Catch every painted phantom ere it fade, And leave the vast Uncertainty to Fate.

But GRIEF IS MINE—yet can I quit the crew Whose bosoms burn with avarice and pride, In yon blue vault to quench my thirsty view, Or tell my feelings to the boist'rous tide.

For are there not, as journeying on we go, With pilgrim step thro' an unfriendly vale, Oppression, Malice, Cruelty, and Woe, And do not Falsehood's venom'd shafts assail?

Were it not nobler far, with social love, As fellow-trav'lers in a rugged road, That each the other's evils should remove, And with joint force sustain the gen'ral load?

O! while such fancied happiness I trace, A glow of gladness runs thro' ev'ry vein; Rapture's warm tear steals silent down my face, And thus I wake the philanthropic strain.

Long, long, may Britain's gen'rous Isle be blest With foreign fame, domestic joys increase; At ev'ry insult, shake the warlike crest; Then weave her laurels in the Bow'r of Peace!

Blest be her Sons in hardy valour bold, And all who haunt meek Learning's sacred shade; Th' aspiring young; and the reposing old; The modest matron; and th' enchanting maid!

And may the BARD upon HIMSELF bestow One humble wish, that soon his cares shall end; With the dead year, resign his weight of woe! Or with the thorns of life, at least some roses blend!