But though the trump of jubilee is still, And Israel’s host in triumph meet no more By Jacob’s well, or Siloa’s sacred brook; Yet in the western world, where Freedom rears Her banner o’er the altar of her God, And all religions meet in peaceful mood, At autumn’s close, the wanderers returned To distant homes, to keep Thanksgiving Day. Such was the custom of the Pilgrim band, When first they trod that wild and wintry shore, And such th’ observance of their sterling sons, Who, scattered o’er the freeman’s heritage, Remember their bold ancestry with pride, And where they tread, make new New England’s bloom. — The days grow shorter, and the nights with frost Creep shivering o’er the landscape’s fading green. The village stage comes in at later hour, From city, town, and distant boarding-school Bringing a host of merry hearts, who seek The joys of childhood by their native hearths; And as it pauses at the welcome door The inmates rush, uncovered, to the stile, And there, ’mid kisses long and loud, is heard The mother’s anxious inquiry for health, The boisterous brother’s rude though hearty hail, And happy father’s well-timed welcome home. What joys, what transports centre in the hour While the old mansion rings with childlike mirth. — For days the very atmosphere has teemed With savory odor from the kitchen flue. And now the day of praise begins, clear, cold and still. While yet the sun sails up its morning path The merry peal from village spire is heard, And straightway pours the tide of life along, Gathering fresh numbers from each ivied door, Changing their greetings warm on every hand, With those by Mammon or by glory called, Whose wandering feet have homeward turned again: And many a speaking eye reveals the tale Of love long felt, but ne’er before expressed. The church is still, and maiden modesty Has smoothed her dress and re-arranged her curl, Then from the choir the pealing anthem swells With chorus grand—and voices long unused To holy song join in the symphony Of praise. Prayer long and deep and eloquent ensues, In which the earth, the nation, and the church, The righteous and the wicked, rich and poor, Remembrance find. And then a meet discourse, Recounting changes of the variant year, Paying a tribute just to absent worth, And hanging garlands green on glory’s tomb. The heart is touched—the mourner’s eye grows dim— The proud are humbled, and the poor rejoice. And when the speaker closes, with a charge To pay due homage to the Mighty One Who guides Arcturus and his boisterous sons, Binds the sweet influence of the Pleiades, And breaks Orion’s broad and sparkling bonds, All hearts, with one accord, in reverence bow, And pure thanksgiving peals from every tongue.