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NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS TO THE PATRONS OF MISSOURI STATESMEN JANUARY 1, 1847 BY EDMUND FLAGG, ESQ. ANOTHER YEAR! How like a knell, upon the thoughtful mind, Falls the deep cadence of those mournful words-Another year hath fled! At this hour, While, like the lone sentinels, the starry hosts Hold their unwearied watch around the couch Of the departing year, as faithfully As when they hailed his birth,-is it not meet Upon those scenes to dwell, which his long lapse, Like a proud river, winding though rich banks, Hath glassed in shade, or sunshine?-hoary cliffs And shadowy wood and vale,-or, the flower, The graceful flower and vine-leaf trailing A rich embroidery o'er the bald forehead Of some dusky crag?-Upon all earth, Old year, thy steps are seen! In ev'ry heart-, On ev'ry form, thy mark is visible. Time the Perfecter! On the budding rose Thy finger pressed, and the soft petals blushed In bright maturity. Upon the brow Of loveliness and youth lingered thy touch, And beauty there in full development Unrivalled sat enthroned.-Upon the lip Of grief,-Time the Consoler!-pillow'd now Plays the soft sunshine, where was never hoped That joy could smile again. Time the Destroyer! Thou hast strode the earth, and thy dark path Is scathed with desolation. Ruined homes, And hearth-stones cold, and forms of wretchedness Kneeling amid the fragments of their idols; And the gaunt fields of Want and Pestilence,-These, with wild scenes of strife and carnage, Herald thy march and follow in thy train. And Time the Avenger, with his diadem Of burning stars, like fierce and fiery eyes, Waving the sword of Justice o'er his path, And bearing that dark chalice, which Remorse Commends unpitying to th' offender's lips,-Hath onward marched with unrelenting tread. Time the Preserver!-he with hoary hair, And drooping wing-the hour-glass and the scythe, And brow upon whose adamantine scroll, In characters of ever-during depth, A gone Eternity is graced,-to him,- The reverend and the much revered, In self abased humility we bow, And with a deep and mournful penitence Our wasted years lament. And Time the Teacher,- In his hand he bears that iron tablet Upon which is writ in Past's recordings; And from that Register of sin and woe, Dark warnings reads he for the years to come. To thy stern teachings, hoary Chronicler!-At this lone hour, while pale sweet images Of Memory and Hope around us rise, And with beseeching hands beckon us back To list thy precepts,-sadly we bow; And, at thy feet, in broken-heartedness, Unto thy guidance yield our future fate. ANOTHER YEAR!-Spring with her flowers is gone! And Summer's richer glories;-harvest-homes-And silvery clouds,-and gentle zephyrs At their evening hymn. And Autumn,-gone!-With all her rainbow-woods, and purple shades, And sleepy fountains murmuring,-all are gone! .