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All hail!  Oh beautiful New-Year! 
Full, full of promise fraught with cheer. 
Bright promise of the glad return
Of glowing fires that erst did burn
  On hearths long desolate! 
Hail!  Great deliverer from wrath,
Brave pioneer upon the path
  That leads to better fate! 
Joy be to thee thy natal day,
As dawns Aurora’s earliest ray,
While youth is fresh and faith is clear
And hope is bright with coming cheer! 
  Thou promisest eventful life
As, giant-like, thou leap’st to earth,
Robed in full majesty at birth;
With power to do and will to dare
And arm to shield from threat’ning care,
  And eye to ken the dead past’s strife.

Thy young life’s hand knows yet no stain
Of blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain. 
But, know, Oh Friend! thou’rt ushered in
To feel the jar and note the din
  Of war-blast’s rude alarms. 
Thy elder brother, gone before,
Has left upon this nether shore
  A burden for thine arms.

’Tis thine to choose the part thou’lt take,
Oh giant mighty!  Thine to make
An early choice; lose not an hour. 
’Tis crime to waste prodigious power. 
Great, vast, appalling, is the task
By fate assigned to thee.  No mask
Of indecision now is given. 
The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. 
The hour is dark:—­the danger nigh. 
The ravens caw:  the eagles cry. 
The breakers dash—­the chasm yawns: 
The skies are lurid:—­chaos dawns. 
Thunder with thunder-peal is riven
As if to shake earth’s faith in heaven! 
All, all is wild!  No sun!  No moon! 
Earth, air and sky, in dire commune,
  Demand—­what hand shall guide them now?

New-Year, stand forth and bide the call
          To thee address’d. 
        We stand or fall
          As thou decree’st. 
Frown, and we perish.  Smile, we rise
To joys that savor of the skies. 
  Bid lethargy depart thy brow
    And strike for right and truth. 
    Young, thou; but hast no youth. 
No hours are thine for sportive mirth. 
Minerva-like, mature from birth,
Great deeds and valiant thine must be,
In wisdom guided, fair and free.—­
Deeds that no year hath known before;
Fraught not with strife;—­drenched not in gore. 
Free from old taint of fell disease
  And ancient forms of party strife. 
  Rich in the gentler modes of life
    With sweeter manners, purer laws,
Forerunner of those years of ease
    That token a sublimer cause!

What say’st thou?  Giant, young and strong,
  What impulse heaves thy throbbing breast? 
  Shall warrior plumes bedeck thy crest? 
    Wilt whisper peace?  Or shout for war? 
Wilt plead for right, or bleed for wrong? 
    Wilt peal the bugle-blast afar
And urge the cannon’s madd’ning roar? 
  Or wing the note through vale and glen:—­
  Hail!  Peace on earth!  Good-will to men! 
Reason return:—­let strife be o’er?