Every-Day Book
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December 13.

St. Lucy, A. D. 304. St. Jodoc, or Josse, A. D. 669. St. Kenelm, King, A. D. 820. St. Aubert, Bp. of Cambray and Arras, A. D. 669. B. John Marinoni, A. D. 1562. St. Othilla, A. D. 772.

St. Lucy.

This saint is in the church of England calendar and the almanacs. She was a young lady of Syracuse, who preferring a religious single life to marriage, gave away all her fortune to the poor[.] Having been accused to Peschasius, a heathen judge, for professing christianity, she was soon after barbarously murdered by his officers.*[1]


The following effusions are from America. The first, by Mr. R. H. Wilde, a distinguished advocate of Georgia; the second, by a lady of Baltimore, who moots in the court of the muses, with as much ingenuity as the barrister in his own court.


My life is like the summer rose
   That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
   Is scattered on the ground to die.
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see;
But none shall weep a tear for me.

My life is like the autumn leaf
   That trembles in the moon's pale ray,
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
   Restless, and soon to pass away.
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree shall mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breath a sigh for me.

My life is like the prints which feet
   Have left on Tempe's desert strand,
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
   All trace will vanish from the sand.
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea;
But none, alas! shall mourn for me.


The dews of night may fall from heaven,
   Upon the wither'd rose's bed,
And tears of fond regret be given,
   To mourn the virtues of the dead:
Yet morning's sun the dews will dry,
And tears will fade from sorrow's eye,
Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep,
And even love forget to weep.

The tree may mourn its fallen leaf,
   And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
And friends may heave the sigh of grief,
   O'er those who sleep within the tomb.
Yet soon will spring renew the flowers,
And time will bring more smiling hours;
In friendship's heart all grief will die.
And even love forget to sigh.

The sea may on the desert shore,
   Lament each trace it bears away;
The lonely heart its grief may pour
   O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay:
Yet when all trace is lost and gone,
The waves dance bright and daily on;
Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
And even love forgets to mourn.


Cypress arbor vitæ. Thuja cupressioides.
Dedicated to St. Lucy.

Notes [all notes are Hone's unless otherwise indicated]:

1. Audley's Companion to the Almanac. [return]