The weekly Butte record., 1862-12-20
For the BCTTE RkCoED.l
The First and the Last.

A few weeks ago your Nimshew correspond /
ent sent you some pretty verses On the last
rose of autumn - since that time-about the
first Of December-another rose opened its
delicate petals to the winter winds. in the gar
den of Mrs Rugh, at Nimshew Spring, and
she asked ne 10 write some verses on the
first rose Of winter" We have already had
the last rose of summer" and the " last rose
of autumn, and, now, If could only become
Intoxicated, for a few moments, with the FIRE
of Inspiration, without preferring any claim TO
poetieal proficiency, I might register my name
among the literary lights Of the day.
I had much rather write on the first rose of
winter than the last rose Of summer, or Of au-
tumn, because the word last always couyeys to
my mind an impression Of sadness.
In a. The las; Of tie Mohicans l can see a
lone Indian standing on a grassy mound, be-
meath which repose the bones Of q once power
ful race, whose history is almost forgotten, and
whose sole representative muses. there with a
countenance blank with the certainty Of sudden
extinction, Is it not sad
In " the last dollar I see poor, ragged
individual holding in lis hand the sole remain
ing piece of coin he possesses in the world, on
the point of disposiug of it 10 a greedy cormo-
rant, who would feel no qualms of conscience
in sucking up his very life blood while regret,
sorrow and discouragement are rapidly writing
their names on the forlorn physiognomy of the
destitute wretch! Is the picture not sad ?
In the last long lingering look" l see
youth standing in the presence of his lady
love, VINO is, perhaps, making her exit from
the land Of the living, never more to return
again and meet him with Z smile Of love and
affection and, as he stands there silent and
motionless, his tongue refuses to give utterauce
to q single word-he looks like statue, or a
spirit, incapable of weaving into words, a feel
ing too awful for expression. 0! sit not sad ?
The last dying strain of sweet melody, as
it slowly loses itself IN the deep silence of night
leaves sadness in the heart that language, in
all its boasted expressiveness. can never define
But am becoming too tedious and prosy,
and no matter how dihident or incompetent |
may feel to do justice to the first rose of win
ter | must, nevertheless . break the ice y
and try, hoping that your good nature and in
diligence will not critcse too harshly the un-
obtrusive efforts of your humble correspondent:
At the opening of winter, by Nim-hew's clear
spring,
Bloomed fresh in its beauty the rose that sing;
Its presence was lovely, untimely and rare,
As it breathel lis sweet life on the cold mountain
air!
Twas the first Of the winter, pioneer flower,
Trembling forth in its fragrance to live but an hour
Like the bright colored rainbow that hangs in the
sky
To thrill its beholders i moment-then die!
Fidelitys emblem, still true in the hour
When cold winds were breathing around its frai
bower,
1t threw its sweet essence upon the cold earth,
Then, nlartyrHke, fell on the spot of its birth
But leaving lesson from which we can feel
That love has more force than the clangor of steel
Or the loud booming cannon that mangles the slain
For it dies by great Nature. unconscious Of pain
ALP.''
NHsHEw, Pee. r. 1852.