Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/401

1840-50.] HANNAH E. G. AUEV. 3«5 Oh ! they are pensive thoughts that round us throng, When the first wreaths of joy are brown and sere, And, listening for the accustomed voice of song. Life's withered foliage rustles on the ear ; — The voice of birds, — the hum of streams, — the round Of gay winged insects, changed for this one sound. But garnered in the spirit's treasure-cell. Lies a rich harvest gleaned from sum- mer toil ; And he who life's young plants hath nur- tured well. From many a weary field bears back a spoil, Whose golden stores breathe forth the les- son deep, That as the laborer sows his hand shall reap. And though the earth's faded flowers above the tomb Of long departed hopes may thickly press. And summer birds no more their songs resume. Still doth the heart a richer store possess, If, far beneath, by those pale leaves o'er- blown, The seed of Everlasting Life be sown. Its crown of green yon forest shall resume, And other flowers full soon to earth be given ; But ere the soul renew its spring-tide bloom. Its budding leaves must feel the air of Heaven, And from the grave of early hope shall rise, A fadeless plant to blossom in the skies. THANKSGIVING. Come forth, come forth, to the festal board, As our sires were wont in the days of old; The reapers are home with their harvest hoard. The herds have hied to their wint'ry fold. And the cullers of fruit our vaults have stored With the wealth of the orchard's freight of gold. Come forth, come forth, with your heart- felt praise. To swell the songs at the altar's side ; For a lofty pa^an to God we raise. Who hath scattered His love gifts free and wide. And still, from the wan earth's earliest days. His seed-time and harvest hath not denied. Come forth — to the haunts of your child- hood, come; To the roof in whose shadow your life was nurs'd; By the hearth of the household there yet is room, Where your breath of thanksgiving was faltered first. The faggot is blazing your welcome home, And from joyful lips shall your greeting burst. There's a ruddy tinge on the wrinkled cheek, For the pulse of age hath a quicker flow; And a gleam, like the light of youth doth break 'Mid the care-worn shades on the old man's brow. 25