Thanksgiving Day once more has come and gone

Thanksgiving Day once more has come and gone— That day to all our nation great and dear, But in New England came whose earliest dawn, From night of persecution long and drear, That night o’er foreign lands that hovered long, Its morning hours of peril o’er the wave, Broke day at length upon a little throng, Who all its parts to God and freedom gave.

That day again, like hundreds of the past, Has raised the heart in gratitude and praise; Once more our homes have made the yearly feast, And drawn their largest circle round the blaze: Dear ones have met in childhood’s sacred place, Long severed from those darling scenes apart; The flush of youth once more has filled the face, And tender sighs and mem’ries filled the heart.

Now anxious cares have ceased to weigh the hour, Hearts, widowed long, have fled their lonely shade; Old ties have gained a closer binding power, And here have been new loves and friendships made— Now Winter’s van has darkened o’er the leas, Migrating crows have lulled their clamorous strains; The icy North has swayed the naked trees, And once again the bleak December reigns.

Now Phœbus, in his southern home retired, And driven there by heaven’s eternal sway, Shows not that glowing eye which lately fired The world, and lighted Summer’s rosy way; But through the chill and storm-preluding sky, How palely do his eye’s far glances come! As he beholds his daughter ravaged lie, And winter-woven cerements fold her form.

Chill over all New England’s region spreads, In triumph fierce, the wintry conquest now; O’er barren hills and mountains’ bleaky heads, O’er dreary plains and sluggish vales below; The river, erst fresh flowing, and the lake So shining, now are numbed in hoary death; And does the leafless vegetation shake, O’er the dark heath, upon the angry breath.

Now overhead a sudden roar is heard, And groaning sound of heavy reeling trees; And then alike are yonder regions stirred, By rushing gales, in merciless degrees; Hark! now the fitful gusts, wild whirling, surge Against the doors, and at the windows rail, Catching the smoke upon the chimney’s verge, To hurl its thinning volume o’er the vale.

But Nature, in her leniency, recalls The actors of this boisterous theatre; And when the evening’s sable curtain falls, The tempest leaves the stage for action clear; Now all is vacant, save when slumber’s fays Steal in to occupy the silent scene, And the mild stars await in vigil rays, The coming matinee to welcome in.

Thus till the streaky arms of coming Day, Reach forth and night’s wide curtain slowly raise; When are permitted on the stage to play, The gentle sunbeams for a day or days, Till, darkly swarming in their northern hive, Rush forth the winds with sound of stormy war; The flaky burdens now begin to drive, Increasing fast, and spreading wide and far.

See Nature, all her flaky hoard release, Thick bleaching o’er the pinions of the storm, So powdering winter’s weather-tattered fleece, When hurled upon his cold and sluggish form: The ancient oak and elm are whitened o’er, Seeming this hoary monster’s scraggy horns; And haply clogged the pecker’s tiny door, Appearing high upon the trunk or prongs.

The earth, late suffering from shocks and chills, In virgin robes now deeply buried lies, As Nature in regretful sorrow wills, Like men, to show her kindness in demise: Like men, who lavish on the needless dead, Attention which they know will be the last; And think they have those final moments made To balance years of scorn and anger past.

But there is beauty even now, and hark! The whistling northeast drives against the pane; Day’s hazy form is lost within the dark; And Night wields o’er a hemisphere the reign: With snow still heavy freighted is the blast, That swiftly drives its slanting burdens down, In crevices and corners sifting fast, And raving rude the sober stantial round.

Woodpiles show dark and lonely mid the storm, And shortly sifted full and covered o’er; And fast the drifts around the buildings form, And fill the naked bowers upon the moor. Thus ’tis without, but let us look within: How like the nature of this human race; When feeling hearts our graces often win, Though stormy frowns are rampant o’er the face!

Thus ’tis without, but let us look within: How snaps and roars the furnace well supplied! How shows in front the briskly glowing scene, That warmly (unlike man) ’tis gratified! How sweet the kettles bubble, sing and steam, As though they joyed o’er the preparing meal! And on the shelf, the lamps how kingly seem! Whose bulging eyes affection seem to feel.