Poems (Angier)/Song for Thanksgiving
SONG FOR THANKSGIVING.
There's a day of the year—how sweet its name sounds,
At its mention the heart of each little child bounds;
When all are assembled around the fireside,
Old folks, youths and maidens, the bridegroom and bride;
The knitting's laid by, the yarn is all spun,
The feasting is followed by stories and fun;
The housewife is blushing to hear her guests say—
"They've not had such a dinner for many a day:"
Then see that wood-fire on the old-fashioned hearth,
But few can resist its loud summons to mirth;
Though the flame seems an emblem of those who are gone,
For it dies, and we find but a lonely hearthstone.
Yet the scene is a gay one, as long as it lasts,
Though oft when they smile, a cloud overcasts
The brows of the gravest—there is one vacant seat,
Ah, late it was filled by a presence so sweet;
That prophet-hearts whispered, when last she was there,
"We soon must relinquish a being so fair!"
Though I write not the name of this angel of love,
It bears no mean place on the records above;
And long in our hearts will her memory live,
The source of a sadness, which all will forgive—
But all is now over—the sad and the gay,
Have sung their last songs—have said their last say:
The plays are all ended, the stories all told,
They pass from the parlor, the young and the old:
The beaux follow belles to see them safe home,
How they wish that Thanksgiving would oftener come:
Now all have retired—the lights are put out,
The old have forgotten the racket and rout;
The seal of repose on each child's brow is set,
And the young spirit fancies the party just mot;
While all that has happened seems but a brief dream,
The glance of a sunbeam on Life's troubled stream;
As lingers a strain on the strings of a lyre,
So, this Thanksgiving Song, and that old-fashioned fire,
Will waken fond memories of childhood's bright days,
When our souls gaily basked in Hope's golden rays;
When earth with its scenes, bore a semblance of heaven,
Or some fairy-land home to our young fancy given.
At its mention the heart of each little child bounds;
When all are assembled around the fireside,
Old folks, youths and maidens, the bridegroom and bride;
The knitting's laid by, the yarn is all spun,
The feasting is followed by stories and fun;
The housewife is blushing to hear her guests say—
"They've not had such a dinner for many a day:"
Then see that wood-fire on the old-fashioned hearth,
But few can resist its loud summons to mirth;
Though the flame seems an emblem of those who are gone,
For it dies, and we find but a lonely hearthstone.
Yet the scene is a gay one, as long as it lasts,
Though oft when they smile, a cloud overcasts
The brows of the gravest—there is one vacant seat,
Ah, late it was filled by a presence so sweet;
That prophet-hearts whispered, when last she was there,
"We soon must relinquish a being so fair!"
Though I write not the name of this angel of love,
It bears no mean place on the records above;
And long in our hearts will her memory live,
The source of a sadness, which all will forgive—
But all is now over—the sad and the gay,
Have sung their last songs—have said their last say:
The plays are all ended, the stories all told,
They pass from the parlor, the young and the old:
The beaux follow belles to see them safe home,
How they wish that Thanksgiving would oftener come:
Now all have retired—the lights are put out,
The old have forgotten the racket and rout;
The seal of repose on each child's brow is set,
And the young spirit fancies the party just mot;
While all that has happened seems but a brief dream,
The glance of a sunbeam on Life's troubled stream;
As lingers a strain on the strings of a lyre,
So, this Thanksgiving Song, and that old-fashioned fire,
Will waken fond memories of childhood's bright days,
When our souls gaily basked in Hope's golden rays;
When earth with its scenes, bore a semblance of heaven,
Or some fairy-land home to our young fancy given.