Carrier's Address
Hearken, kind friends. Upon this New Year's day,
While hand grasps hand with warm and friendly grip,
And joyful greetings leap from lip to lip,
Scorn not to hear the little I shall say;
For, call it what you will - a speech or song —
I promise one thing: it shall not be long.
To hold before you the historic roll
Of seventy-four I don't pretend to try,
(You know the record quite as well as I)
Nor yet to open up the sealed scroll
Of seventy-five. I could not if I would,
And, what is more, I would not if I could.
Evil, catastrophe, may loom ahead,
Close wrapped in shadows. What would be the gain,
If one could strip them naked? Naught but pain.
We bear an evil twice which once we dread;
And as to good, to be most full, complete,
There must be some surprise to spice the sweet.
Some things have happened, and some others will,
No doubt. I offer you these sage reflections.
Instead of going over the elections,
And wailing over past and future ill.
The old year buried, vain regrets should cease,
While welcome we the New with songs of peace.
The world moves on; barred is the backward track
With debris of the ages. Time sweeps by, —
The months, the days, the moments, — noiselessly;
And always, always onward, never back.
Time hath no ebbs; its tides flow steadily,
Ever, forever, toward a shoreless sea.
The past is buried; rake not up the sod
For mouldering bones, nor water it with tears.
Along with buried hopes let buried fears
Rest in darkness. Merciful the clod
Which hides what it were pain to look upon —
The " might have beeus " , the good deeds left undone.
Let the dead sleep; the present lives, we know;
To grapple that is all. None ever may
Do aught of good or evil yesterday.
Its tale is told and ended — let it go.
And, for to-morrow, not yet need we bear
(Perchance we never need) its grief and care.
The days go by, — how swift their flying feet!
The year just born will soon be old and gray,
And down the swallowing past be swept away.
And this poor life — so dear, so frail and fleet —
Is made but of such quickly vanished years,
Ends with a pall, a grave, and mourners' tears.
The days go by; we cannot stay their flight,
But he who fills them fullest as they fly,
His year is longest — since 'tis measured by
What it contains. Fourscore were but a night,
Live in a dungeon; and scarce more it seems,
Wasted in trifling, or in empty dreams.
While hand grasps hand with warm and friendly grip,
And joyful greetings leap from lip to lip,
Scorn not to hear the little I shall say;
For, call it what you will - a speech or song —
I promise one thing: it shall not be long.
To hold before you the historic roll
Of seventy-four I don't pretend to try,
(You know the record quite as well as I)
Nor yet to open up the sealed scroll
Of seventy-five. I could not if I would,
And, what is more, I would not if I could.
Evil, catastrophe, may loom ahead,
Close wrapped in shadows. What would be the gain,
If one could strip them naked? Naught but pain.
We bear an evil twice which once we dread;
And as to good, to be most full, complete,
There must be some surprise to spice the sweet.
Some things have happened, and some others will,
No doubt. I offer you these sage reflections.
Instead of going over the elections,
And wailing over past and future ill.
The old year buried, vain regrets should cease,
While welcome we the New with songs of peace.
The world moves on; barred is the backward track
With debris of the ages. Time sweeps by, —
The months, the days, the moments, — noiselessly;
And always, always onward, never back.
Time hath no ebbs; its tides flow steadily,
Ever, forever, toward a shoreless sea.
The past is buried; rake not up the sod
For mouldering bones, nor water it with tears.
Along with buried hopes let buried fears
Rest in darkness. Merciful the clod
Which hides what it were pain to look upon —
The " might have beeus " , the good deeds left undone.
Let the dead sleep; the present lives, we know;
To grapple that is all. None ever may
Do aught of good or evil yesterday.
Its tale is told and ended — let it go.
And, for to-morrow, not yet need we bear
(Perchance we never need) its grief and care.
The days go by, — how swift their flying feet!
The year just born will soon be old and gray,
And down the swallowing past be swept away.
And this poor life — so dear, so frail and fleet —
Is made but of such quickly vanished years,
Ends with a pall, a grave, and mourners' tears.
The days go by; we cannot stay their flight,
But he who fills them fullest as they fly,
His year is longest — since 'tis measured by
What it contains. Fourscore were but a night,
Live in a dungeon; and scarce more it seems,
Wasted in trifling, or in empty dreams.
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