_(For the Mirror.)_
Twenty-nine, Father Janus! and can it be true,
That your _double-fac'd_ sconce is again in our view?
Take a chair, my old boy--while our glasses we fill,
And tell us, "what news"--for you can if you will.
Shall we have any war? or will there be peace?
Will swindlers, as usual, the credulous fleece?
Will the season produce us a _deluge_ of rain?
Did the comet bring coughs and catarrhs in his train?
Will gas, so delicious, _perfume_ our abodes?
Will McAdam continue "Colossus of _roads?_"
Will Venus's boy be abroad with his bow,
And make the dear girls over bachelors crow?
Will _quid-nuncs_ from scandalous whispers refrain?
Will poets the pent of Parnassus attain?
Will travellers' tomes touch the truth to a T?
Will critics from caustic coercion be free?
Shall we check crafty care in his cunning career?
In short--shall we welcome a happy new year?
What, _mum_, Father Janus?--egad I suppose,
Not one of our queries you mean to disclose.
Let us, therefore, the blessings which Providence sends,
To our country, to us, our relations and friends,
With gratitude own--and employ the supplies,
As prudence suggests, "to be merry and wise."
Nor ever, too curious the future to pry,
Presume on our own feeble strength to rely;
But, taught by the _past;_ for the _future_, depend
Where the wise and the good all their wishes extend.