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| IT 1 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, | 5 |
| 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. | |
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| Of the deep learning in the schools of yore | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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. | |
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| The anthem swells; the heart’s high thanks are given: | |
| Then, mildly as the dews on Hermon fall, | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| No bird more fondly flutters o’er her brood, | |
| When the dark vulture screams above their native wood. | |
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| “For all his bounties, dearest charge,” he cries, | |
| “Your hearts are the best thanks; no more refrain; | |
| Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice. | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus bleeds.” | |
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| 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 | 40 |
| 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. | 45 |
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| 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, | 50 |
| 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. | |
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| The hospitable doors are open thrown; | 55 |
| 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; | 60 |
| And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall | |
| Upon his awkwardness some lively joke, | |
| Not pitying the blush her bantering has woke. | |
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| And there the grandam sits, in placid ease, | |
| A gentle brightness o’er her features spread: | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be; | |
| When hoary eld is loved but the more tenderly. | |
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| 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, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| Course in soft beauty down the christian mother’s cheek. | |
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| 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. | 85 |
| 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. | 90 |
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| 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, | 95 |
| Even by the ruby hand of Hebe drest; | |
| Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared, | |
| With their white rounded arms above the elbow bared. | |
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| Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train, | |
| The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. | 100 |
| 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: | 105 |
| His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes, | |
| When wakening memory his aged heart sublimes. | |
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| 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,— | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| The very de’il himself incarnate is in her. | |
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| 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, | 120 |
| 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! | 125 |
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| 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, | 130 |
| 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? | |
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| ’T is evening; and the rural ball begins: | 135 |
| 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 | 140 |
| Entering, all conscious of their coming sway: | |
| Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween, | |
| The spoils and glories of this festal scene. | |
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| New England’s daughters need not envy those | |
| Who in a monarch’s court their jewels wear; | 145 |
| 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, | 150 |
| And eyes that speak, in each impassion’d glance, | |
| The poetry of youth, love’s sweet and short romance? | |
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| 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. | 155 |
| 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. | 160 |
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| 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! | 165 |
| 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. | |
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| While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years, | 170 |
| 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, | 175 |
| As o’er the soft and sapphire skies of May, | |
| Though nature then be young and exquisitely gay. | |
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| 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 | 180 |
| 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, | 185 |
| To gild with heavenly hopes their evening’s pensive shade. | |
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| 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; | 190 |
| 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. | 195 |
