Poems (Hazlett-Bevis)/Thanksgiving
For works with similar titles, see Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving has come with its glory,
All strewn o'er with russet-brown leaves;
It brings up the past, and the story
Of they who have garnered their sheaves.
Not one hut has something to thank for,
Not a heart hut should thankfully pray,
And bless Him for gifts from His bountiful store,
He has given us, day after day.
Tis a beautiful, olden-time custom,
And hallowed because of the time
Brave forefathers fought for our freedom,
And mothers toiled grandly sublime.
There were years of terrible waiting,
And locks that grew gray with suspense;
With matrons and maidens relating
The actions of war, so intense.
There were days of hunger and fasting,
And nights full of wearisome pain:
There were hours that seemed everlasting,
And moments that dragged by in vain.
Cheeks paled with horror and wasting,
Bright eyes grew heavy with tears,
And red lips grew wan with the tasting
The bitterness of death, in those years.
Hunger and want was their portion,
The cold pierced the young, and the old;
Fair features were wrought in distortion,
And trembled the limbs of the bold.
It was over at last, and the morning
Sun shone from a blue, cloudless sky;
Smiles were the dear wife's adorning,
And the tear-drop that fell from her eye.
The maimed and the lame came home to them—
Both fathers and sons, worn and brave;
And others came not, but the diadem
Of their lives, they so willingly gave.
Peace and plenty soon followed
These grateful and God-fearing men:
And wives, with a feeling so hallowed,
Knelt with them in thanksgiving then.
Good cheer covered table and hearth-stone,
And the widow and orphan partook,
For soldier and wife would feast not alone
In His presence, who never forsook.
So the Thanksgiving custom descended
To us, who are thankful as they,
For homes that are still well defended
In much the same heroic way.
There are murmurs instead of thanksgiving,
In many sad homes this glad day,
Yet not one but's been blessed in the living,
If he'd look at it just the right way;
There's a thankfulness even in breathing
His wholesome and glorious air,
And a world of sublimity wreathing
A patient endurance and care;
If thankful of naught but that others
May not have been stricken as you—
A magnanimous thankfulness, brothers,
That will reach up to Heaven so true.
No home but has something to mar it,
No life that is free from all pain;
And paths may be darkened or star-lit—
The trail of the serpent will stain.
Then thank God for all, and still trusting,
Remember the poor in our midst,
For while they, their sad lives are adjusting,
He may do with thee just as thou didst.
If thy larder is well filled, or meager,
Oh, thankfully give up a share;
He is wistfully watching, so eager
To return measure for measure, with care.
No truer and better thanksgiving
May be offered, than gifts well bestowed
On the needy and desolate, living
In gloom on life's wearisome road.
Then to each a joyful thanksgiving,
May all boards be well filled to-day;
And all be the better for giving,
And reading this Thanksgiving lay.
All strewn o'er with russet-brown leaves;
It brings up the past, and the story
Of they who have garnered their sheaves.
Not one hut has something to thank for,
Not a heart hut should thankfully pray,
And bless Him for gifts from His bountiful store,
He has given us, day after day.
Tis a beautiful, olden-time custom,
And hallowed because of the time
Brave forefathers fought for our freedom,
And mothers toiled grandly sublime.
There were years of terrible waiting,
And locks that grew gray with suspense;
With matrons and maidens relating
The actions of war, so intense.
There were days of hunger and fasting,
And nights full of wearisome pain:
There were hours that seemed everlasting,
And moments that dragged by in vain.
Cheeks paled with horror and wasting,
Bright eyes grew heavy with tears,
And red lips grew wan with the tasting
The bitterness of death, in those years.
Hunger and want was their portion,
The cold pierced the young, and the old;
Fair features were wrought in distortion,
And trembled the limbs of the bold.
It was over at last, and the morning
Sun shone from a blue, cloudless sky;
Smiles were the dear wife's adorning,
And the tear-drop that fell from her eye.
The maimed and the lame came home to them—
Both fathers and sons, worn and brave;
And others came not, but the diadem
Of their lives, they so willingly gave.
Peace and plenty soon followed
These grateful and God-fearing men:
And wives, with a feeling so hallowed,
Knelt with them in thanksgiving then.
Good cheer covered table and hearth-stone,
And the widow and orphan partook,
For soldier and wife would feast not alone
In His presence, who never forsook.
So the Thanksgiving custom descended
To us, who are thankful as they,
For homes that are still well defended
In much the same heroic way.
There are murmurs instead of thanksgiving,
In many sad homes this glad day,
Yet not one but's been blessed in the living,
If he'd look at it just the right way;
There's a thankfulness even in breathing
His wholesome and glorious air,
And a world of sublimity wreathing
A patient endurance and care;
If thankful of naught but that others
May not have been stricken as you—
A magnanimous thankfulness, brothers,
That will reach up to Heaven so true.
No home but has something to mar it,
No life that is free from all pain;
And paths may be darkened or star-lit—
The trail of the serpent will stain.
Then thank God for all, and still trusting,
Remember the poor in our midst,
For while they, their sad lives are adjusting,
He may do with thee just as thou didst.
If thy larder is well filled, or meager,
Oh, thankfully give up a share;
He is wistfully watching, so eager
To return measure for measure, with care.
No truer and better thanksgiving
May be offered, than gifts well bestowed
On the needy and desolate, living
In gloom on life's wearisome road.
Then to each a joyful thanksgiving,
May all boards be well filled to-day;
And all be the better for giving,
And reading this Thanksgiving lay.