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| O, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, | |
| The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, | |
| And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, | |
| With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, | |
| Like that which o’er Nineveh’s prophet once grew, | 5 |
| While he waited to know that his warning was true, | |
| And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain | |
| For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. | |
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| On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden | |
| Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; | 10 |
| And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold | |
| Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; | |
| Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, | |
| On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, | |
| Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, | 15 |
| And the sun of September melts down on his vines. | |
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| Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, | |
| From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, | |
| When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board | |
| The old broken links of affection restored, | 20 |
| When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, | |
| And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, | |
| What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? | |
| What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? | |
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| O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; | 25 |
| When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! | |
| When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, | |
| Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! | |
| When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, | |
| Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, | 30 |
| Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam | |
| In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! | |
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| Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better | |
| E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! | |
| Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, | 35 |
| Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine! | |
| And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, | |
| Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, | |
| That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, | |
| And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, | 40 |
| And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky | |
| Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie! | |
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