Whig and tribune. [volume] (Jackson, Tenn.) 1870-1877, 1872-02-03
watching in the "Now Year,


"All that's bright must fade" is
! indellibly written on every mind, as
on everything visible 70 the natural
eve. Each and everything on this
sublunary globe is fast passing away
to give room and place for some
thing of greater interest and curl
ositV, aud of far greater utility.
The Christmas holidays, which
have been TO the true and faithful
followers of the meek and lowly
"Rabbi of Bethlehem" a season of
joy and of thanksgiving; TO the toll
worn and weary q season of rest
and recreation, and to the gay and
giddy, the profiigate and intemper-
ate, a season of mirth and of dane
ing, of revelling and bacchanalian
songs, will be in one short hour
passed forever. The old year, with
all his joys and sorrows, his bright
est hopes blighted, and dearest de-
sires unfulhhed; his storms and sun
shine, his light and darkness, his
loyf1- tEilcS sad bereaVcd widows,
MS great ACHIEVEMENTS and inter fall
ures, his births, his marriages, and
his deaths, will soon be buried deep
in the grave Of eternity, where the
waters of oblivion may forever roll
over his silent bed.
How we love 10 look back thro'
the vista of the past, and Gull DER
again from memOry's wreath the
flowers so rich and fragrant. With
what painful pleasure do we linger
at the death bed of some departed
friend. How oft, in our fancy, do
we visit those haunts of childish
pleasures, and recall from memOry's
album those haunts of our child
hood days! How brightly shines
those days Of the past when never a
friend proved false, nor our hearts
grew sick with hope deferred! In
the bitterness of our loss how ea-
gerly we exclalm with another:
Backward, turn backward, Oh Time, in thy
flight,
And make me a child just again for to-
night.
But il heeds not our cry; il turns a
deaf ear to supplicatiOns, and waits
for none. Davs, weeks, months and
years succeed each other like the
panorama of dream, and each cycle,
| following close in the footsteps Of
its predecessor to take its place in
the procession Of time, while the
/ Old fear is still breathing out his
| expiring moment.
Silence holds all things spell
| bound. Not a sound is heard save
the low wall of the wind, the patter
of the rain drops on the roof, as il
weeping for the old man, and the
muttering thunder in the west, ma
| ture's own salute DER the grave Of
! its dead. Midnight, with the char
acteristic of true friendship, throws
the mantle of darkness aud gloom
over the scene. Earth, so long
moving with the speed Of wind,
/ stops one moment that the old man
may rest for this the last, the nigh
ty, the death struggle.
] Twelve -midnight-and
the spirit of Eighteen Hundred and
/ Seventy-One has passed beyond the
( confines of time, into the bosom of
/ God. Let US draw the curtain of
! charity over his misdeeds, remem-
bering nothing but the goodness,
and that "time at last makes all
/ things even" But we cannot linger
at mis- grave; tie New Year is here,
and to him we must do homage
/ Many times and oft have we wit
messed his coming; sometimes with
| joy, sometimes with regret, and
sometimes with love, but still he
comes with ineXOrable punctuality.
'Tis a sacred moment-the death
of the Old and the birth of the New
Year, and our own inspired minds
can only give utterauce 10 the pray
! er to Him that ordains all things,
that his banner OF charity and reli-
gion may wave DER US through all
| time.