THE PICKET.
129
On the morrow comes Thanksgiving, when from households far and wide
Round the hearths the children gather,—seek once more the old fireside;
Fill once more the vacant places that they left so long ago,
Self-relying,
Proudly trying
All life's unknown joy and woe.
Round the hearths the children gather,—seek once more the old fireside;
Fill once more the vacant places that they left so long ago,
Self-relying,
Proudly trying
All life's unknown joy and woe.
On the morrow comes Thanksgiving! Not as long ago it came,
Bright, without a shade of sorrow lingering round its good old name;
War has waved his crimson banner, and beneath its blood stains rest
All his glory,
Dim and gory,
Laid on many a lifeless breast.
Bright, without a shade of sorrow lingering round its good old name;
War has waved his crimson banner, and beneath its blood stains rest
All his glory,
Dim and gory,
Laid on many a lifeless breast.
Wife and child and aged mother wake at morn to bend the knee,
And, around the hearthstone glowing, supplicate their God for me;
Near my vacant chair they gather, blending tears amid their prayers,—
And, around the hearthstone glowing, supplicate their God for me;
Near my vacant chair they gather, blending tears amid their prayers,—
