A New Year's gift I send to thee,
A volume filled with quaint old rhymes;
And may it wake the memory
Within thy heart, of olden times.

When we by the cheerful fireside hearth,
Together conned the glowing page,
Grave themes, and subjects full of mirth,
Did each by turns our minds engage.

Oh, then, what rapture filled my heart,
How throbb'd my brow--how burn'd my brain,
As the poet with his magic art,
Wove the deep mysteries of his strain.

But now a leaden stupor lies
Upon my dull, inactive soul;
In vain my spirit strives to rise,
From the dark mists that o'er it roll.

Nor legend old, nor wild romance.
Nor fairy tale, nor minstrel lyre,
Can with their magic power entrance,
Or one impassion'd thought inspire.

Thus, like the rosy sunset hues,
Fade fancy's pictures from the soul,
The light that youth's fair skies imbued,
Is merged in clouds that o'er us roll.