To Sylva

I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair; Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart; Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.

Wherever at noontide my spirit may be, At evening it silently wanders to thee; It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest, As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.

Through the battle of life--through its sorrow and care-- Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,-- Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son, I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.

1859.

THANKSGIVING.

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]

Father, our thanks are due to thee For many a blessing given, By thy paternal love and care, From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled With blessings for our race, And we calmly look thro' winter's storm To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,-- Who seldom thanked before; And seldom bent the stubborn knee Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured On all our wayward days And now thy mercies manifold Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar; We do not fear its blast; And we'll bear with faith and fortitude The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father,--Father,--O look down On the poor and homeless head And feed the hungry thousands That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread; We would not ask for more; But, Father, give their daily bread To the multitudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land The naked and hungry are; O feed them with thy manna, Lord, And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord, We will not give a stone; For the bread and meat thou givest us Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us From thy all-bounteous horn We'll cheerfully divide that loaf With the hungry and forlorn.