Slender and gentle and surpassing fair Was blue-eyed Summer with her golden hair, Sweet-voiced as is the murmur of a dove, Whilst every look was eloquent with love. Where blooms the wild rose by the mountain spring, In whose clear waves the robin dips his wing, Where clustering berries tempt the longing eyes Like the forbidden fruit of Paradise, And the sweet mocking-bird, in carol gay, Enchants the listener with his wondrous lay-- There, in the silence of her shady bowers, The Summer genius passed the dreamy hours; Death came and laid his hand upon her brow, And in eternal night she sleepeth now. Next Autumn came in robe of gorgeous dyes And stately step and melancholy eyes-- In mien and look like discrowned Antoinette A queen--although the Bourbon star had set-- Beholding with a proud, unwavering faith The scaffold and the officers of death, Mourning--not her own early doom, for she Knew well the hollowness of majesty-- But grieving that the beautiful and gay In her bright train were doomed to pass away. So Autumn died, but oh, her couch of death Was balmy with the jasmine’s odorous breath, And every wind-harp breathed its hollow moan For the sweet soul that had forever flown. But lo! whilst mourning for the seasons fled, A phœnix from the ashes of the dead Rises in triumph, and the new-born year Round Time’s vast orb begins his swift career. The rising sunbeams herald his advance, And break on every hill a golden lance; Heaven plants her banners at the Eastern gate, To greet the monarch as he comes in state, And the loud harps of ocean and of earth Resound in strains of revelry and mirth. Welcome to earth, thou youngest child of Time, Unwarped by wrong, unspotted by a crime! Oh, may the blooming vigor of thy youth Ripen in wisdom, purity and truth. Spare in thy flight the innocent and gay And scatter pleasure’s garlands in their way; Repress the insolence of lawless might, And make the wrong submissive to the right; Uphold the patriot and strike down the hand That waves the traitor’s sword or treason’s brand And with the hand of charity redress Each form of human woe and wretchedness, So that the annals of all coming time Shall write thee as the Golden Age sublime. NEW YEAR ODE, 1861. [CARRIERS’ ADDRESS FOR THE LOUISVILLE JOURNAL.] Oh, infant year, whose newborn limbs are swathed And cradled in convulsion--Oh, dread Heaven, Unsealing o’er this land of many woes The Apocalyptic vials--Oh, my torn And bleeding country, by thy sons deflowered And stricken of thy God--how shall I sing A festal anthem on a broken lyre-- To ears made dull by sorrow?