Ere he arose, the savage, man, No bounds to years or seasons knew, On Nature's book his reckoning ran, And social festivals were few. In after days, when folks grew wise New wonderments were daily found, Systems they built on pumpkin pies, And prov'd that every thing went round. Experience shows they reason'd right, (With laurels we their tombs should crown) For half the world is in such plight That one would swear it upside down. Now I am one, (and pray attend) Who, marching in a smaller sphere, To set you right, my service lend, By bringing Papers through the year, Which to your Honours may impart A thousand new invented schemes, The works of wit, and toils of art, News, commerce, politics, and dreams: Though in a sheet, at random cast, Our motley knowledge we dispose, From such a mass, in ages past, Have less substantial fabrics rose; The Sybil wise, as Virgil says, Her writings to the leaves consign'd, Which soon were borne a thousand ways, Derang'd and scatter'd by the wind. Not such neglect in me is seen-- Soon as my leaves have left the press I haste to bring them, neat and clean, At all times in a New Year's dress. Though winds their ancient spite retain, And strive to tear them from my hold, I bear them safe through wind and rain, Despising heat, despising cold. While thus employ'd, from week to week, You surely will not think it hard If, with the rest, I come to seek Some humble token of regard. Nor will you deem my conduct strange If what I long have thought be true-- That life itself is constant change, And death, the want of something new. [273] Text from the 1786 edition. The poem appears in the 1795 edition under the title "A News-Carrier's Petition." THE HAPPY PROSPECT[274] Though clad in winter's gloomy dress all Nature's works appear, Yet other prospects rise to bless the new returning year: The active sail again is seen to greet our western shore, Gay plenty smiles with brow serene, and wars distract no more. No more the vales, no more the plains an iron harvest yield; Peace guards our doors, impells our swains to till the grateful field: From distant climes, no longer foes (their years of misery past) Nations arrive, to find repose in these domains at last. And, if a more delightful scene attracts the mortal eye, Where clouds nor darkness intervene, behold, aspiring high, On Freedom's soil those Fabrics plann'd, on virtue's basis laid, That make secure our native land, and prove our toils repaid. Ambitious aims and pride severe, would you at distance keep, What wanderer would not tarry here, here charm his cares to sleep! O, still may health her balmy wings o'er these fair fields expand, While commerce from all climates brings the products of each land.