The new year eighteen hundred and forty six
Is ushered in with lowring clouds, gloom and mist,
Ominous of what we certainly cannot now divine
'Till the future becomes the past by lapse of time.
But now ere mid day the time mark, clock has told;
Old Sol his face unveils with radiance as days of old,
His golden smiles almost at alternate hours miled
With flying clouds, mist and showers of rain.
Variable and changeable the prospects of day till even,
The weeks of the year like the day can be told on the advent of '47
By none but: the Creator who each year gives us a blessing
For which all should reverence, adore and praise him.
January 1, 1846.
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