Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By Thanksgiving

Mrs Little

IT is thanksgiving morn—’t is cold and clear;

The bells for church ring forth a merry sound;

The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear,

Rival the many-tinted woods around;

The rosy children skip along the ground,

Save where the matron reins their eager pace,

Pointing to him who with a look profound

Moves with his ‘people’ toward the sacred place

Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of grace.

Of the deep learning in the schools of yore

The reverend pastor hath a golden stock:

Yet, with a vain display of useless lore,

Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock

The better cravings of his simple flock;

But faithfully their humble shepherd guides

Where streams eternal gush from Calvary’s rock,

For well he knows, not learning’s purest tides

Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul abides.

The anthem swells; the heart’s high thanks are given:

Then, mildly as the dews on Hermon fall,

Begins the holy minister of heaven.

And though not his the burning zeal of Paul,

Yet a persuasive power is in his call;

So earnest, though so kindly, is his mood,

So tenderly he longs to save them all,

No bird more fondly flutters o’er her brood,

When the dark vulture screams above their native wood.

“For all his bounties, dearest charge,” he cries,

“Your hearts are the best thanks; no more refrain;

Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice.

Almighty Lover! shalt thou love in vain;

And vainly woo thy wand’rers home again?

How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads!

Behold! thy harvest loads the ample plain;

And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds,

From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus bleeds.”

Much more he spake, with growing ardor fired;

Oh that my lay were worthy to record

The moving eloquence his theme inspired!

For like a free and copious stream outpour’d

His love to man and man’s indulgent Lord.

All were subdued; the stoutest, sternest men,

Heart-melted, hung on every precious word:

And as he utter’d forth his full amen,

A thousand mingling sobs re-echoed it again.

Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn,

Close by whose rustic porch an elm is seen:

Lo! now has past the service of the morn;

A joyous group are hastening o’er the green,

Led by an aged sire of gracious mien,

Whose gay descendants are all met to hold

Their glad thanksgiving in that sylvan scene,

That once enclosed them in one happy fold,

Ere waves of time and change had o’er them roll’d.

The hospitable doors are open thrown;

The bright wood-fire burns cheerly in the hall;

And, gathering in, a busy hum makes known

The spirit of free mirth that moves them all.

There, a youth hears a lovely cousin’s call,

And flies alertly to unclasp the cloak;

And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall

Upon his awkwardness some lively joke,

Not pitying the blush her bantering has woke.

And there the grandam sits, in placid ease,

A gentle brightness o’er her features spread:

Her children’s children cluster round her knees,

Or on her bosom fondly rest their head.

Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed

Their sweet young fragrance o’er such aged tree!

How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled,

Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be;

When hoary eld is loved but the more tenderly.

And there the manly farmers scan the news;

(Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it wears;)

Or, while their pipes a lulling smoke diffuse,

They look important from their elbow chairs,

And gravely ponder on the nation’s cares.

The matrons of the morning sermon speak,

And each its passing excellence declares;

While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek,

Course in soft beauty down the christian mother’s cheek.

Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast,

Rich with the bounties of the closing year,

Is spread; and, from the greatest to the least,

All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer.

The list of dainties will not now appear;

Save one I cannot pass unheeded by,

One dish, already to the muses dear,

One dish, that wakens memory’s longing sigh—

The genuine far famed Yankee pumpkin pie.

Who e’er has seen thee in thy flaky crust

Display the yellow richness of thy breast,

But, as the sight awoke his keenest gust,

Has own’d thee of all cates the choicest, best?

Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared,

Even by the ruby hand of Hebe drest;

Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared,

With their white rounded arms above the elbow bared.

Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train,

The plenteous fragments of the feast to share.

The old lame fiddler wakes a merry strain,

For his mull’d cider and his pleasant fare,—

Reclining in that ancient wicker chair.

A veteran soldier he, of those proud times

When first our freedom’s banner kiss’d the air:

His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes,

When wakening memory his aged heart sublimes.

But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has known

Full oft the pelting of the winter storm?

Through its fringed hood a strong wild face is shown,—

Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldam’s form;—

There ’s none of all these youth with vigor warm,

Who dare by slightest word her anger stir.

So dark the frown that does her face deform,

That half the frighted villagers aver

The very de’il himself incarnate is in her.

Yet now the sybil wears her mildest mood;

And round her see the anxious silent band.

Falls from her straggling locks the antique hood,

As close she peers in that fair maiden’s hand,

Who scarce the struggles in her heart can stand;

Affection’s strength has made her nature weak;

She of her lovely looks hath lost command;

The flecker’d red and white within her cheek—

Oh, all her love it doth most eloquently speak!

Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be,

And half excused the superstitious art.

Now, when the sybil’s mystic words to thee

The happier fortunes of thy love impart,

Thrilling thy soul in its most vital part,

How does the throb of inward ecstacy

Send the luxuriant blushes from thy heart

All o’er thy varying cheek, like some clear sea

Where the red morning-glow falls full but tremblingly?

’T is evening; and the rural ball begins:

The fairy call of music all obey;

The circles round domestic hearths grow thin;

All, at the joyful signal, hie away

To yonder hall with lights and garlands gay.

There, with elastic step, young belles are seen

Entering, all conscious of their coming sway:

Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween,

The spoils and glories of this festal scene.

New England’s daughters need not envy those

Who in a monarch’s court their jewels wear;

More lovely they, when but a simple rose

Glows through the golden clusters of their hair.

Could light of diamonds make her look more fair,

Who moves in beauty through the mazy dance,

With buoyant feet that seem’d to skim the air,

And eyes that speak, in each impassion’d glance,

The poetry of youth, love’s sweet and short romance?

He thinks not so, that young enamor’d boy

Who through the dance her graceful steps doth guide,

While his heart swells with the deep pulse of joy.

Oh, no; by nature taught, unlearnt in pride,

He sees her in her loveliness array’d,

All blushing for the love she cannot hide;

And feels that gaudy art could only shade

The brightness nature gave to his unrivall’d maid.

Gay bands, move on; your draught of pleasure quaff;

I love to listen to your joyous din;

The lad’s light joke, the maiden’s mellow laugh,

And the brisk music of the violin.

How blithe to see the sprightly dance begin!

Entwining hands, they seem to float along,

With native rustic grace that well might win

The happiest praises of a sweeter song,

From a more gifted lyre than doth to me belong.

While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years,

Round the home-fires their peaceful elders meet.

A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers;

And yet, though calm their pleasures, they are sweet

Through the cold shadows of the autumn day

Oft breaks the sunshine with as genial heat,

As o’er the soft and sapphire skies of May,

Though nature then be young and exquisitely gay.

On the white wings of peace their days have flown;

Nor wholly were they thrall’d by earthly cares;

But from their hearts to heaven’s paternal throne

Arose the daily incense of their prayers.

And now, as low the sun of being wears,

The God to whom their morning vows were paid,

Each grateful offering in remembrance bears;—

And cheering beams of mercy are display’d,

To gild with heavenly hopes their evening’s pensive shade.

But now, farewell to thee, thanksgiving day!

Thou angel of the year! one bounteous hand

The horn of deep abundance doth display,

Raining its rich profusion o’er the land;

The other arm, outstretch’d with gesture grand,

Pointing its upraised finger to the sky,

Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand

For Him, the Father God, who from on high

Sheds gleams of purest joy o’er man’s dark destiny.