




Che Hitst of January. 
Southey, 
OME, melancholy moralizer, come |! 
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath ; 
With me engarland now 
The sepulchre of Time. 
Come moralizer, to the funeral song | 
I pour the dirge of the departed days; 
For well the funeral song 
Befits this solemn hour. 
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round 
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day— 
This consecrated day 
To joy and merriment. 
Mortal! while Fortune, with benignant hand 
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, 
Whilst her unclouded sun 
Tllumes thy Summer day ;— 


