Poems (Chitwood)/January 1st, 1855
JANUARY 1st, 1855.
O stern, remorseless Time!Another year is added to thy reign;Another year hath gone to that far clime From whence none come again.
A year, whose morning brightWas ushered in by many happy throngs,With feast and dance, and friendship's golden light, And mirth, and jest, and songs.
Gone! as the ebb and flowOf the dark ocean's fair sapphirian tide.Gone! as the gloaming's variegated glow When the June day hath died.
Yet go! no tears for thee,O year of darkness; where thy steps have been,Ridges of new made graves, on land and sea, The dead have gathered in.
Upon thy summer skyThere came no cloud of sweet, refreshing rainThe thirsty leaves looked upward with a sigh; But all in vain, in vain.
The sweetly singing rillIn shadowy nooks had pined itself away,And every bird and bee lay sad and still Through the long, dusty day.
And when the storm-clouds came,They came in fury; in their barren pathWere blight and ruin; worse than lightning's flame The record of their wrath.
In the West Indian isles,Where brightest birds fly forth on rainbow wings;Where, mid the orange and the myrtle's smiles, The golden oriole swings;—
There, in the odorous hours,The pestilence stalked forth with awful tread,And, as a sickle mid the harvest flowers, Left a full path of dead.
Surely, for thee, O yearOf storm, and fire, and shipwreck, and of woe,—Dread bearer of death's hour-glass, and his spear— For thee no tear should flow,
On the red field of warThousands have fallen for their country's sake—Youth, beauty, strength, all vanished as a star, Where the bright dawn doth break.
That blood shall yet have powerTo call to heaven for justice from each nook;And thrones shall tremble, in some future hour, As if the whole earth shook.
And despots shall be foundTrembling in sight of all their proud domains;For freedom's spirit never can be bound, Though all the trees were chains.
And never; never moreThe Bible can be sealed. In olden dayThey tried to guard the sepulcher's dark door: The stone was rolled away.
And God will yet be heardIn every nook, and hamlet, tower, and hall;The power and blessings of his Holy Word On freedom's ear shall fall.
And chains shall tumble downFrom the tired limbs, where long their weight hath pressed;On thorn-torn brows shall fall a healing crown, And weary arms shall rest.
O dark, departed year,From out thy heap of spoils we look, in hope,To see if yet the beauteous star appear In time's vast horoscope.
Yet 'twas a wise decree,That in thy hand was put the avenging rod;For, in the hour of full prosperity, We were forgetting God.
Yes, by the weight of sinThat brooded o'er our country, far and wide;By countless homes, where evil entered in By the red lips of pride;
By the vain pomp and show,The purple, and fine linen, and the gold;By the shut ear to worse than Lazarus' woe, Our hearts were growing cold;
By the defiant sneer,Neglected Bible, vacant house of prayer,As Jews we plunged, with reckless hand, the spear In His side deeper there;
By the vain love of gold—The shielding of the guilty, if he woreO'er his black heart the costly raiment's fold, To hide the murderer's gore;
By the arch tempter's sin—The Licensed Fiend, who steals his brother's soul;Lures, by his scales, the weak and erring in To his accursed goal;
Who darkens homes with gloomDarker than midnight storms, and drags the pure,The good, the true, to sorrow's lonely tomb, With slow, slow grief, but sure;—
By all the tongues that cry,Asking for justice;—they shall yet be heard;Still will come answers from the far-off sky, As if the heavens were stirred.
Still the avenging rod,By mercy tempered, shall afflict us all;Until the proud, that standeth daring God, "Take heed lest he shall fall."
Still the wild waves of fireShall burn, and burn, until the gold is pure;Till error, with a last, long cry, expire: But right shall e'er endure.
Welcome, thou glad New Year;We bid thee hail, while on thy fair young browThou bearest the crown of twelve months half with fear— We bid thee welcome now.
May we, with hearts as strong,And arms as sure as steel, keep battling on,Until the last, unblushing host of wrong To its dark grave hath gone.
May we be true to self,True to our God, true to our native land;Nor, for the praise of men, nor pelf, nor love, Bow to the traitor's brand.
Labor, in hope and strength,Till those whose necks have bent beneath the yoke,Shall cry,—with one deliverance cry at length,— "How Fair the morning broke."