I have a suit of new clothes in this happy new year;
Hot rice cake soup is excellent to my taste;
But when I think of the hungry people in this city,
I am ashamed of my fortune in the presence of God.

They shall see Him in the crimson flush
Of morning's early light,
In the drapery of sunset,
Around the couch of night.

When the clouds drop down their fatness,
In the late and early rain,
They shall see His glorious footprints
On valley, hill and plain.

They shall see Him when the cyclone
Breathes terror through the land;
They shall see Him 'mid the murmurs
Of zephyrs soft and bland.

They shall see Him when the lips of health,
Breath vigor through each nerve,
When pestilence clasps hands with death,
His purposes to serve.

Happy was man ere cheated sense,
By love's false fires misled,
From all the sweets of innocence
To wilder passions fled.
Free from desire he knew no fear,
Enjoyment crowned the circling year.

Since art and wisdom cannot stay
The too swift-footed hours,
Let us in pleasures melt the day
While yet we call it ours.
He only truly knows to live
Who drinks, and scorns to love or grieve.

You ask for fame or power?
Then up and take for text:
This is my hour,
And not the next, nor next!

Oh, wander not in ways
Of ease or indolence!
Swift come the days,
And swift the days go hence.

Strike! while the hand is strong:
Strike! while you can and may:
Strength goes ere long,—
Even yours will pass away.

Sweet seem the fields, and green,
In which you fain would lie:
Sweet seems the scene
That glads the idle eye:

Soft seems the path you tread,
And balmy soft the air,—
Heaven overhead

The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail thaThe gave to the gale,
When the heavens looked dark, is gone,—

The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,

"What are you still, still thinking,"
He asked in vague surmise,
"That you stare at the wick unblinking
With those great lost luminous eyes?"

"O, I see a poor moth burning
In the candle-flame," said she,
"Its wings and legs are turning
To a cinder rapidly."

"Moths fly in from the heather,"
He said, "now the days decline."
"I know," said she. "The weather,
I hope, will at last be fine.

"I think," she added lightly,
"I'll look out at the door.
The ring the moon wears nightly
May be visible now no more.

I saw the Singers, king and sage,
Monk, peasant, villager, and mage,
Round the long hillside winding slow,
With gifts unto their temple go.

All odours of delight they had
To make all manner of men glad,
From mystic nard and pungent myrrh,
To simple leaves of lavender.

Rich fabrics of far looms arrayed
Some of that chanting cavalcade;
And these were they who rode before
And costlier presents with them bore.

Strange, lidded vessels wrought in gold
Their fine aromas might not hold,
But scattered to the morning air

Lamb , could the muse that boasts thy forming care,
Unfold the grateful feelings of my heart,
Her hand for thee should many a wreath prepare,
And cull the choicest flowers with studious art.

For mark'd by thee was each imperfect ray
That haply wander'd o'er my infant mind;
The dawn of genius brighten'd into day,
As thy skill open'd, as thy lore refin'd.

Each uncouth lay that falter'd from my tongue,
At eve or morn from Eden's murmurs caught;
Whate'er I painted, and whate'er I sung,
Though rude the strain, though artless was the draught;

THE ANTISEPTIC BABY and the Prophylactic Pup
Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up;
They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised;—
It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized.

They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease;
They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees;
They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished Hope
And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap.

In sulphureted hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears;
They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears;