The herald and mail. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 1873-188?, 1876-01-28


Burlington Hawkeye.
tss Hush! !---------zs-ss
HaEk eEG TET
a time for dreams and reverie
The dying year is passing away. If i
4 hadsany klndsef land itWould take j
/ np< but M, ,Ait passes passes; SLOWLY
passes; raiIrdad pssse minstrel passes
cofa-passes pass US the mustard |; afmos
any Kind of passes.
And yet, methinks it were not always
thus, The midnight hour is sounding
from the Ebelfry tower as in heavy tonel
\ the old town clock tolls the knell of The
dying year. We had to borrow a towr
clock from town over in Illinois in order
to work. thiE stanza. through; For the
Buriington Town clocks are not ON the
knell, very strong. If the dying yeal
waited for our town clocks to ring them
tout, the Centennial wouIdfl't t come around
for thousand years But no-the sub
ject is too plainly, let it pass. 1t were
better so. Better that the unbufied
thoughts that rise like restless ghosts and
haunting, ,-h0Esr-aF0and memory gate,
Fshould fold their pulseless hands ON the
still drapery and sleep
Oh, the long cruel dingbats that flute
magilder the tawdry thingumbObs of the
hapdoodles in their CHASTITY gonderness.
And where? Oh, sunbrowed sirocco, who
ate the CASTLE soap? '-shl Memory,
memorv. ! : thy iron gates.
What vast? Hist! All, be still, sad
heart. Only the rising wind rustles the
uncertain drapery. Judge Drapery, may
be. And yet-but still-and then-or
no-ha, yes why, ho-it is-'tis not
lit was-'tis two, tits fifty; 'tis fifty, It's
fifty-two. All, we'll; long, long and star
less has. been the night, but something
cometh with the morning --Ay, Dunbar s
st. Julien mend this pensive mood
Where are the friends of my youth?
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 theInky pail of drifting
clouds that ffOwn away the simmer
light, a fair, sweet figure rises, like dream
of Hope. Out of the gates of the I'm
possible, adown those mystic vistas whose
enchanted shores and magic isles have
echoed to thecsiren songs of lboyhood's
sunny hours, their beckoning figures rise
and glide across the threshold of the all
pervading Present, and their sllurian
cinthes mock the encuFtained future.
Break, break break on the cold gray
rocks, oh, man sent up for ten days and
no money to pay your fine. 9--.l
Change, change, change. 1t Is world
of mutations. To-day we look out upon
the street; it is crowded with loved and
familiar faces, the constant cheerful faces
of men we owe. Tomorrow we look out,
and To-, a change. A COW stands in the
the street, which was not there
before. Thus cities grow, and change
comes with the growth. Small change.
Give me- two threes and two for an
No? Then fade every
sordid Joy. lkEtiEz
Slowly the old year moves away; slowly \
but surely it moves. Wherefore Per- |
haps it doesn't like the neighborhood. |
Maybes somebody steals its wood. 1t |
goes away from us into the irretrievable |
past, the old wear, not the wood, and we |
know not who has taken it, the wood, not |
the old year, and we embalm it with Bit
.er tears, the old year-and we lock up
he next cord we get, the woOd-for the |
mines of Golconda cannot count its value,
whose every moment sparkles with dia-
nonds of thought, and golden instants of
,ppoftunity, the old year, that is, and we
Dad one or two of the hollow sticks with
Ivnamite, the wood that is, and lay its
precious lessons away in memorys casket,
he old year, you know, and leave them
wing carelessly around for trap, the
wood, we do that with-and hide them
leep in the utmost chambers of the heart,
he old wear we're talking about-and it
,icks up stray neighbor or two, maybe;
he wood does-and it perfumes life with
he subtle essence of halfforgOtten pleas
Tres and sacred SORROWS. the, old year
Ioes, unless Bridget picks It up and
hueks it into our sown stove, the wood
Awayl These. fancies burn into the
vearieds brain. Lead me to Lethe's
ableds stream where. in its dark and
urbid waves the soul may hide from
very carking care and be at rest. What,
10! without there! Wine; bring hither
parking wine, with its eyes and tongue
f flame. Wine, wine; the Old Crow
ind, f
Hush, the last stroke of the midnight
lour trembles on the starlit air. 1t is the
Iawning of the centennial year. This
ear; is hundred years long. Oh,
,lessed thought, delightful vision for the
nan who pays his rent by the year! Oh,
lingering horror for the man whose salary
uns the same way! Oh, rare centennial
norm! Oh, natal birthday Oh, longing
yes of a yearning world! Oh, spotless
ecord of unrecorded time! Oh, several
ther Things. Oh, pshaw!