Poems (Stephens)/The new year

by Eliza Jane Stephens

For works with similar titles, see The New Year.

THE NEW YEAR.

The New Year comes, all myrtle crowned,
 And bearing brimming cups of wine;
His breath is sweet with mirth and song,
 His robes with very whiteness shine.

He bids us don our gay attire.
 And taste of pleasures rich and rare;
And sings of life a syren's song,
 Attuned to some delusive air.

There's time, he says, for us to toil,
 When just a few more mouths are flown:
Why should we wait on carking care,
 When joys like these may be our own.

Why should we choose to join the throng,
 Who burdens lay on heart and brain?
As if the very hands that sowed,
 Were sure to reap the golden grain

Too well he knows his subtle power,
 Full well he knows our love of ease,
How soon we shirk whate'er annoys,
 For what is light and meant to please.

Too long we've listened to his wiles,
 We've trifled more than two score years;
'Tis time we answered duty's call,
 So long unheeded by our ears.

'Tis time we gave our thought and strength
 To work, lest we should feel the shame,
Of having lived out all our days,
 And nothing done to earn a "name.

For soon with grizzled head and beard,
 The year itself will haste away,
And leave us with reproaches too,
 For every lost or misspent day.