









THE NEW-YEAR. 
This simple flower has deeper thoughts for me, 
For that, like mine and every living soul, 
Tt 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 hath “ residence,” and Fancy “ power.” 
y) 
The Hew-Venr, 
(6) (Fa) 
Tennyson. 
IP 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. 

