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Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4. (ed. Frank Moore) 2 0 Browse Search
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12. the New-Year-1862. by Mary A. Ripley. The Old Year's pulse is low. The life that blazed And like a fiery tide poured through his veins Only a twelvemonth since, is faint and cold. Look on him as he lies before you now! Where is the grace that dwelt in that still form? Where is the brightness of the dull, dead eyes? This is the dying year. But I can see-- I have it pictured in a hidden shrine-- The young year with fair, promising lips, and arms O'erladen with the gifts, should make me rich. And like a bauble-loving child, I fear My hands have grasped the tinsel, not the gold. And yet I would not lose my last year's life; I had no love for the dear mother-land, No holy pride in her free floating flag, Till Sumter fell, and hearts beat martially, And voices rang like trumpets in my ears, And gathering thousands sought the Capital, To stay the threatening flood that treason poured. A year ago, upon Potomac's banks, Silence was sleeping; and the stars shone down On quiet cities,