The Dying Year.

The year has been a tedious one— A weary round of toil and sorrow, And, since it now at last is gone, We say farewell and hail the morrow. Yet o'er the wreck which time has wrought A sweet, consoling ray is shimmered— The one but compensating thought That literary life has glimmered. Struggling with hunger and with cold The world contemptuously beheld 'er; The little thing was one year old— But who'd have cared had she been elder?