At length, around the table, Duly bless'd by the Master of the feast, they cheerily assemble. Before him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve. In a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey, Chickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving is ever a death-knell; Luscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red complexion, Garnish'd and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable wealth. Ample pasties were attached, and demolished with dexterity, Custards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced pumpkin, Prime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New England have been thankful. Apples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit of the hickory, Bisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple dessert, Finale to that festival where each guest might be safely merry. Hence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole-star, Toward which Memory looked backward six months, and Hope forward for six to come, Dating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his Hegira. Hymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time; Bachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship imposes, Longed for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release, And many a householder, in his family-bible marked its date As the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart. * * * * * Content was the life of agriculture, in unison with that wisest prayer "_Thy will be done._" Wisest, because who, save the Eternal Knoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among shadows, Himself a shadow, not like Adam our father in Paradise, Rightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, evil, Blindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever-lastingly, And embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dagger of Ehud. Asketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares; "Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdition; Power? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die: Surely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour,-- "_Not my will hut Thine._" * * * * * Thus, as it was in the days before us, Rural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity, Minutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment. More of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth-clime, From the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing among the nations. Then rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth alone That winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash away, But on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the soul. * * * * *