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THE N E W-Y EAR. 
This simple flower has deeper thoughts for me. 
For that, like mine and ev^ry living soul, 
It has its own unravelled history 
Recorded on no earthly page or scroll; 
For that it is a thread of sympathy 
With lands beyond where other oceans roll; 
Within the infant rind of this small flower, 
Memory bath “residence,” and Fancy “power.” 
pto-gtar. 
Tennyson. 
niP down upon the northern shore, 
^ Oh! sweet New-Year, delaying long; 
Thou doest expectant Nature wrong, 
Delaying long; delay no more. 
What stays thee from the clouded noons. 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can troubles live with April days, 
Or sadness in the Summer moons? 
Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire, 
The little speedwell’s darling blue, 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 
