THANKSGIVING DAY.
I Sought the house Thanksgiving Day,
And found its inmates all away,
Save her who sat before the fire,
And, by her side, her palsied sire.
At play, betwixt her fingers white,
A needle nimbly glanced the light;
But oft her eyes it could not stay,
To either side would glance away.
And on her right hand, open spread,
There lay the Book of God she read;
And on her left I just could trace
An infant namesake’s pictured face.
The Book of God, the housekeeper,
The babe that had been named for her,
The book and babe and she between,—
Through doors ajar I mark’d the scene.
And, while she sat before me so,
Content to share another’s woe;
A captive for her sisters gone,
Whom all their joy depended on;
Cheer’d now to read of heavenly worth
For souls denying self on earth;
Moved now to do the deed she should,
Lest wrong should lead that child from good;—
Another soul, my heart felt sure
Could keep, if so surrounded, pure,—
If there God lured his thought above,
And here one shared his name and love.
The scene was homely; yes, I know,
But homely scenes may haunt one so!—
That still her sweet face with me stays,
My days are all Thanksgiving Days.