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.