“I think, brother Charles,” returned Edward, “at least,
That they might go to church, if they do n’t like the feast;
For to me it is much the best part,
To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give
To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:—
It is feasting the ear and the heart.
“From Him, who has brought us another year round,
Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned,
Their gratitude who can withhold?
And now how I wish I could know all the poor
Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure,
Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!”
“I ’m glad,” said their father, “to hear such a wish;
But wishes alone, can fill nobody’s dish,
Or clothe them, or build them a fire.
And now I will give you the money, my sons.
Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns,
To spend in the way you desire.”
The brothers went home, thinking o’er by the way,
For how many comforts this money might pay,
In something for clothing or food:
At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it
For what she thought best, they would get her to send it
Where she thought it would do the most good.
[MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS.]
I cannot to the city go,
Where all in sound and sight,
Declares that nature does not know,
Or do a thing aright.
To granite wall, and tower, and dome
My heart could never cling;
Its simple strings are tied to home—
To where the crickets sing.
I ’m certain I was never made
To run a city race,
Along a human palisade,
That ’s ever shifting place.
The bustle, fashion, art and show
Were each a weary thing;
Amid them, I should sigh to go
And hear the crickets sing.
If there, I might no longer be
Myself, as now I seem,
But lose my own identity,
And walk, as in a dream;
Or else, with din and crowd oppressed,
I ’d wish for sparrow’s wing.
To fly away, and be at rest,
Where free the crickets sing.