A THANKSGIVING.
Father! I said, when sickness and pale sorrow
Had brought me to death's door, a guest forlorn,
When every hope seemed bounded by to-morrow,
And life's fair fabric into fragments tornn
If from the grave, I said, Thou wouldst restore me,
Withdraw the shadow from my drooping eyes,
And cast the banner of Thy dear love o'er me,
My lyre's first accents unto Thee should rise.
Had brought me to death's door, a guest forlorn,
When every hope seemed bounded by to-morrow,
And life's fair fabric into fragments tornn
If from the grave, I said, Thou wouldst restore me,
Withdraw the shadow from my drooping eyes,
And cast the banner of Thy dear love o'er me,
My lyre's first accents unto Thee should rise.
And I have sat beside the gushing fountain,
And heard a language lips may never speak;
Have stood upon the green and sloping mountain,
And felt heaven's breezes blowing on my cheek;
Have watched the birds of passage gayly winging
Their trackless paths across the summer main,
And felt in God's dear light a new hope springing
Within my heart, and bounding through each vein.
And heard a language lips may never speak;
Have stood upon the green and sloping mountain,
And felt heaven's breezes blowing on my cheek;
Have watched the birds of passage gayly winging
Their trackless paths across the summer main,
And felt in God's dear light a new hope springing
Within my heart, and bounding through each vein.
