Edwardsville Spectator

POETRY

LINES

Written on the 31st of December.

BY SELLECK OSBORN, ESQ.

Be composed every toil and each turbulent motion,
That encircle the heart, in life's treacherous snares,
And the hour that invites to the calm of devotion,
Undisturbed by regrets, unencumbered with cares.

How cheerless the late blooming face of creation!
Weary time seems to pause in his rapid career,
And fatigued with the work of its own desolation,
Looks behind with a smile on the grave of the year!

Hark! the wind whistles rudely, the shadows are closing,
That enwrap his broad path in the mantle of night,
While pleasure's gay sons are in quiet reposing,
Undismayed by the wrecks that have numbered his flight.

From yon temple where fashion's bright tapers are lighted,
Her votaries, in crowds, decked with garlands appear,
And (as yet their warm hopes by no spectres affrighted,)
Assemble to dance round the grave of the year.

Oh! I hate the stale cups which the idlers have tasted,
When I think on the ills of life's comfortless day,
How the flowers of my childhood their verdure have wasted,
And the friends of my youth have been stolen away!

They think not how fruitless the warmest endeavor,
To recall the kind moments neglected when near,
When the hours that oblivion has concealed forever,
Are interred by her hand in the grave of the year.

Since the last solemn reign of this day of reflection,
What throngs have relinquished life's perishable breath!
How many have shed their last tear of dejection,
And closed the dim eye in the darkness of death!

How many have sudden their pilgrimage ended,
Beneath the low pall that envelops their bier
Or to death's lonesome valley have gently descended.
And made their cold beds with the grave of the year.

Tis the year that so late its new beauties disclosing,
Rose bright on the happy, the careless and gay,
Who now on their pillow of dust are reposing
Where the sod presses damp on their bosoms of clay.

Then talk not of bliss while her smile is expiring,
Disappointment still drowns it in misery's tear,
Reflect and be wise for the day is retiring.
And to-morrow will dawn on the grave of the year.

Yet awhile and no seasons around us will flourish,
But silence for each her dark mansion prepare.
Where beauty no longer her roses shall nourish,
Nor the lily o'erspread the wan cheek of despair,

But the eye shall with lustre unfading be brightened,
When it wakes to true bliss in yon orient sphere,
By the sunbeams of splendor immortal enlightened,
Which no more shall go down on the grave of a year.