Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1876-01-15

marx
List, oh, list
1t is time for dreams and reverie.
The dying year is passing away. If it
had any kind of hand it would take it
up; but no, it passes; passes; slowly
passes; railroad passes; minstrel passes;
com.passes; pass US the mustard; almost
any kind OF passes.
And yet, methinks, it were not always
thus. The midnight hour is sounding
from the beliry tower as in heavy tones
the old town clock tolls the kGell of the
dying year. We had to borrow town
clock from town over iu Illinois in or
der to work this stanza through. For
the Burlington town clocks are not on
the knell, very strong If the dying
year waited for our town clock to ring
them out, the Centennial wouldn't come
around TOR thousand years But no.
the subject is too painful, let it pass
1t we're better so Better that the uu-
lburied thoughts that rise like restless
q NOsts aud h0unting, hover around men,
erv,s gate, should fold their pulseless
hands NJ the still drapery and sleep.
0h the long, cruel dlngbats that flute
maOilder thu, taWdry thingumbobs of the
flapdoodles in heir ghastly gonderness-
And where2 Oh, sanbro"ned slT,oSoco'
who ate the CASTLE so>%pf -sh' Mem
ory. memory, bar thy ro \ gates'
What was't2 Hist! An, De stili sao
heart. Only the rising wind 'Nstles the
uncertain drspery. Judge D%pery'
maybe. And yet-but still-snd the,
or no-ha, yes!--why mott is-'tis It's
MOTT was-'tis two. It's fifty; tis fifty,
tis ffty-two. All, well; long, long and
starless has been the night, but some.
thing cometh with the morning. AN
Dunbars gong.
St. Julien mend this pensiye mood.
Where are the friends of my youth2
Never had any. Out of the swinging
portals of the past, whose feet are the
restless, moaning sea, and whose lofty
head is swathed in the inky pail Of drift
ing clouds that frown away the summer
light, fair, sweet figure rises, like a
dream of hope. Out of the gates of the
impossible, adown those mystic vistas
whose enchanted shores and magic isles
have echoed to the siren songs Of boy
hoods sunny hours, their beckoning fig
ures rise and glide across the threshold
Of the all.prevailing present, and their
silurian cinthes mock the encurtained
future. Break, break, on the cold gray
rocks, oh, man sent up for ten days and
no money to pay your fine.
Change, change 1t is world OF mu-
tatious. To-day we look out upon the
street; it is crowded with loved and ia
miliar faces, the constant cheerful faces
of men we owe. Tomorrow we look out,
and 10, change, A COW stands in the
middle Of the street, which was not there
before. Thus cities grow, and change
comes with the growth. Small change.
Give me two threes and a two for an
overcoatbutton, No? Then fade every
sordid joy.
Slowly the old year moves away; slow
ly but surely it moves. Wherefore2
Perhaps il doesn't like the neighborhood.
Maybe somebody steals its wood. 1t
1t goes away from us into the wood, and
we know notswho has taken it, the wood,
not the old year, and we embalm it with
bitter tears, the old year-snd we lock
upothe next cord we get, the wood--for
the mines Of Golconda can not count its
value, whose every moment sparkles with
diamonds OF thought, and golden in
stsnts Of opportunity, the old year, that
is and we load one or two OF the hollow
sticks with dynamite, the wood that is,
and lay its precious lessons away in
memory's casket, the old year, you know,
and leave them lying carelessly around
for a trap, the wood, we do that with
and hide them deep in the utmost cham
bers of the heart, the old year we're talk,
ing about pick up q stray neighbor
or two, maybe; the wood does--and il
perfumes life with the srbtle essence oi
haltforgotten pleasures, and sacred sor'
rows, the year does, unless Bridget picks
it up and chucks it into our own stove
the wood, Away These fancies burn
into the wearied brain. Lead me to
. Lethe's tabled stream, where in its DARK
and turbid waves the soul may hide from
every carking care and be at rest. What
hol without therei Wine; bring hithei
sparkling wine, With its eyes and tongue
Of fame, Wine; wine, the Old Grow
kind.
Hush, the last stroke Of the midnigh
hour trembles on the starlit air. Il il
! the dawning Of the Centennial year. Thil
year is q hundred years long. oh
: blessed thought, delightful vision for th'
rhan who pays his rent by the year Oh
lingering horror for the man whose sal
. sry runs In the same way Oh, rarI
Centennial morn Oh, natal birthday
I oh, longing eyeaoof yeerning world
y Oh anotlaaa racord al npracordad time