I.
Bright is the early morn. With radiance clear
Its dewy light illumines the dusky wood.
The neat, but humble mansion rises near,
Embosomed in its leafy solitude.
There doth the Farmer, far from public strife,
'Mid sheltered scenes, with sylvan beauty strown,
In quiet independence pass his life;
To want and all its bitter train, unknown,
Although by toil he gains whate'er he calls his own.

II.
A plain New England ploughman; true in word,
In manners gentle, open-hearted, kind.
But, though in noisy contest never heard,
He bears a steadfast and judicious mind.
Soon as the morn its journey doth renew,
And scatters bright 'the rear of darkness thin,'
In distant fields his hands their task pursue;
Nor less at home the early cares begin
Of those who milk the cows, and those who gaily spin.

III.
Nor deem from toil that he hath no release;
'Tis true, his bread by watchful care is won;
But with the coming eve his labors cease,
And he is happy when his work is done.
And once a year his brightly beaming hearth
Shines brighter yet -- upon Thanksgiving day.
Loud sounds the merry voice of childhood's mirth,
While those of riper years, who live away,
Returning from afar, their annual visits pay.

IV.
Behold! in chaise or wagon they appear,
Approaching glad their own, their native hill;
Where stands the home, to early childhood dear,
The home, where deep affection lingers still.
Once more, with beating heart, once more they see
The scattered cottages, the pastures wide,
The modest church, the overhanging tree,
The distant forests, waving in their pride,
And all to memory dear, to early joys allied.

V.
How strong the charm, when early life is new,
Which binds itself to each familiar scene;
The humble school-house claims again their view,
Upon its solitary patch of green.
There were they wont their childish skill to try.
The birch still grew beside the aged door,
And thence the eager school-dame, passing by,
Detached the rod, which awfully she bore,
As with laborious care she taught her simple lore.

VI.
With gratulations oft and warm, they bless
Every loved object which they recognize.
The ancient orchard and its cider-press,
And slow-paced Dobbin greet again their eyes.
They mark the ploughshare in the glebe it broke,
And as their eager gaze they round bestow,
They praise the oxen, parted from the yoke,
That graze the fields, as yet unclothed with snow,
And wake the echoes oft, with loudly uttered low.

VII.
And see, they turn again with kindling eye,
And hail the towering oaks expanding wide.
Beneath those oaks, when evening gilt the sky,
Full many a feat of speed and strength they tried.
Nor, while their frequent glances they prolong,
Do they forget the stream, whose verdant shore
Resounded loud with many a wild bird's song.
With lusty arm they swam its waves of yore,
Or, borne in well-built boat, applied the vigorous oar.

VIII.
The gray-haired father guides their steps around,
Well pleased to find that they do not forget;
That streams, and blooming woods, and cultured gorund,
In memory's fadeless page are brightly set,
And still, as they were wont, the soul can cheer.
And thus it is, that ever cherished well,
Thanksgiving day, to youth and maiden dear,
Opes with its golden key the secret cell,
Whence o'er the bounding heart unnumbered pleasures swell.

IX.
To-day, old men, that erst, o'ercome with fears,
Low in the chimney corner bowed their head,
Are fired with life, as in their younger years,
Throw down the crutch, and move with sprightlier tread.
To-day, the beggar, bidding care away,
With firmer step invades the farmer's door,
And cheers himself, and sings his roundelay,
As blest in heart, though miserably poor,
As if he had a home, and countless wealth in store.

X.
Joy to the loved and lone Emilia too,
An orphan, left to grief and early cares.
She, at this happy time, as wont to do,
With punctual visit, to her friends repairs;
And welcomed by the farmer and his wife,
Who felt the sorrows of a brother's child,
She deemed these hours the bright ones of her life,
When, many a secret grief and toil beguiled,
Her mourning heart was cheered, as all around her smiled.

XI.
And soon around the fire they drew the chair,
And many a fond inquiry then is past:
What trials and what griefs have been the share
Of each since they beheld each other last?
Who have been sick, and who have doomed to die?
Perchance how Giles succeeds at his new trade?
The hopes and records of the nuptial tie?
How grew the corn, and how the wheaten blade,
After the havoc wild which the great tempest made?

XII.
The younger portion of the family,
And those, who visit them, of equal age,
Pour forth the torrent of their childish glee;
While others, older in their pilgrimage,
The matrons sage and grandsires sitting by,
Their sports with sympathetic gladness view.
The scene brings back to memory's fruitful eye
The days when they were young and thoughtless too,
And loved with busy zeal each pleasure to pursue.

XIII.
Now to the Public Worship all repair,
For not 'by bread alone' God's people live.
The frequent villagers are gathering there,
A portion from the Bible to receive,
And raise with happy hearts the grateful song.
When streams, that from the rugged mountains roll,
When rocks and hills the note of praise prolong,
Oh, shall not man, who ruleth o'er the whole,
Join in the strain divine, and lift the joyous soul?

XIV.
Oh, 'tis most true, that Nature hath a voice,
And her Creator given her a tongue;
That through her mighty realms she doth rejoice,
And by her countless hosts his praise is sung.
The little lambs give praise upon the hill,
The little birds upon the flowering tree;
The bright, uncounted stars proclaim his will;
The moon, that walketh in her majesty;
Thou boundless, mighty God! All nature's full of Thee.

XV.
But chief thou dwellest with the heart contrite,
With such as are of soul resigned and pure;
Far in the lonely cot is thy delight,
With the believing and religious poor.
Thou ever hearest, when thine aid they ask;
When sorrows throng them, Thou dost still befriend;
And lest in vain should prove their daily task,
The gentle rain and sunshine Thou dost send,
With greater goods in store, when life's few days shall end.

XVI.
And now the massy tables are displayed,
Where those shall meet, who ne'er may meet again.
There children, cousins, neighbors are arrayed;
The cheerful beggar helps to swell the train.
The board well-dressed is like the driven snow;
To grace it well the careful housewife tries;
White are the plates in long and decent row;
The smoking puddings, and the pumpkin pies,
And roasted beef, look rich and goodly in her eyes.

XVII.
Happy the man, who, when this day comes round,
Can think on cellars stored and garners filled;
The honest product of the grateful ground,
His own, and not another's hands have tilled.
He dreads nor duns nor sheriffs at his gate,
Nor fears in aught the snares for debtors spread.
But with a heart serene, a step elate,
Goes forth, the sovereign of his rural shed,
Yet never doth forget the Giver of his bread.

XVIII.
To Him what reasons there exist for praise!
How many motives to a virtuous course!
The tide of good hath reached us all our days,
Full in its stream, exhaustless in its source.
Our cows and cornfields give us milk and meal;
Our barns well filled, nor small the cellar's store;
Loud sounds at eve the merry spinning-wheel,
And when, perchance, the wintry storm sweeps o'er,
We have our own bright hearth. What could we wish for more?

XIX.
Once 'twas not so. In years, when he was young,
The farmer tells of griefs, that are not now.
The husbandmen, with muskets o'er them slung,
In danger and in watching held the plough.
Sadly and slow the fearful moments sped,
For savage men, athirst for blood, were nigh,
And when at eve they bowed the weary head,
They knew not, but ere morn the warwhoop's cry
Would reach their lowly roof, and call them out to die.

XX.
But now contentment beams in every face;
Peace in our dwellings, and stern war afar;
Ne'er may it leave again its deadly trace,
And ne'er again the scene of quiet mar.
Instead of spears the fruitful share we guide;
Instead of swords the pruning-hook we wield;
Beneath our own dear roof, the hearth beside,
Come, let us scan the claims of hill and field,
And learn what fits the sheep, and where the grain doth yield.

XXI.
And thus to friendly converse they incline;
The farmer tells the time to plough and sow;
While others speak of pastures, sheep, and kine,
Of summer's suns, or winter's drifting snow;
The matrons grave discourse of loom and dairy;
Apart, the hardy youth, as well they might,
Bend, listening, to the songs of blue-eyed Mary.
'The Beggar had his jest,' and with delight
The rapid hours passed by, till sunset's golden flight.

XXII.
The quiet eve hath come; the evening star
Renews his bright, but solitary beam;
The moon ascending in her silver car,
Again diffuses o'er the earth her gleam.
And now, before they seek the pillow's rest,
The song, the mirth, and conversation's din
Give place to household worship, season blest.
The good old man doth read the Word Divine,
And all, with reverent hearts, in supplication join.

XXIII.
There was divine enchantment in his prayer;
His soul was touched, as if with heavenly fire.
He, who in worldly things did hardly dare
To lift his thoughts and conversation higher,
Than the poor marks of earth, and place, and time,
His fields and herds, his fences and his plough,
Finds fitting words, and many a thought sublime,
Whene'er in holy worship he doth bow,
And at Jehovah's throne his hope and faith avow.

XXIV.
He giveth thanks, that, though another year
Hath rolled away to dark eternity,
So many of them live; so many here,
Beneath his roof, each other's face to see,
But she, who graced the last Thanksgiving day,
The child beloved, the daughter of his heart,
His Sarah, is no more. And he doth pray,
Though sudden was the blow, and keen the smart,
That they may humbly show submission's quiet part.

XXV.
He pleadeth for himself, his children, wife,
His supplication is, whate'er their lot,
That in the duties and the griefs of life,
Their great Creator ne'er may be forgot.
He prays for one upon the ocean tost,
For Joseph on the wide and boundless sea,
Where many a helpless sailor lad is lost,
That in Jehovah's favor he may be,
And with glad eyes again his native country see.

XXVI.
And then his mind to other themes awake,
Which by the Christian volume have been taught,
A higher and a nobler flight doth take,
And up to heavenly mansions lifts its thought;
Upon celestial hills his soul doth stand.
There shine the angel ranks, supremely bright,
With starry crowns, and happy harps in hand;
And there in those abodes of blessed delight,
When sinks the world in fire, shall all Christ's friends unite.