XI.

Snug in the corner doth her good man sit,
Nor ever from his lazy settle moves;

The howling blast frights not his quiet wit,
But stormy sounds and piping winds he loves.
He, philosophic, chides at needless sorrow,
Nor will he add to real, fancied ills.

But looks in storms to-day for calms to-morrow.
Thus fearful thoughts and low complaints he stills,
And ever and anon, his cheerful pipe he fills.

XII.

Happy the man, in winter's stormy hour,

When woods and plains with angry snows are strown, Who is not doomed to feel their hostile power,

But hath a shelter he can call his own,

The cheerful hearth, the amicable chair.
He, with his gossip neighbors side by side,
Spreads cheerfully the peasant's homely fare.
They deal the mutual jest. Then, venturing wide,
With patriot zeal elate, the nation's fate decide.

Ah me!

XIII.

On such a fearful time as this,
While we around the peaceful hearth are safe,
And in the warmth and glow of social bliss,
Forget the winds against the house that chafe,
And at the door and windows threat in vain,
The seamen on the overwhelming deep,
The tenants of the loud and doubtful main,

Can scarce their stations on the vessel keep;

See, how they mount on high, then plunging down they

sweep.

XIV.

Anon, a wave, with swift and thundering sway,
Bears suddenly some sailor from the deck.
Poor man! In the illimitable way,

That foaming spreads around, he seems a speck.
Now sunk, now seen, now borne on high, now low,
He smites the wave, like one that strikes for life;
But all in vain; far downward doth he go;

And as he yields at length the fearful strife,

He dying thinks once more of children, home, and wife.

[It is hardly necessary to remark, that Thanksgiving day is the principal social and religious festival in New England and some other of the United States. Occurring at the season of the year, when the heart naturally rejoices in the various exhibitions of the Divine goodness, hallowed by early recollections, and by religious influences, it is welcomed by all classes. Some of the traits and incidents which are characteristic of this interesting season, are embodied in the following stanzas. But it may be proper to keep in mind, that we have proposed to describe the humble and unpretending Thanksgiving of those in rural life, rather than that of those, who move in what are sometimes considered the more ele. vated circles.]

BRIGHT is the early morn.

I.

With radiance clear

Its dewy light illumes the dusky wood.

The neat, but humble mansion rises near,

Embosomed in its leafy solitude.

There doth the Farmer, far from public strife,
'Mid sheltered scenes, with sylvan beauty strown,
In quiet independence pass his life;

To want, and all its bitter train, unknown,
Although by toil he gains whate'er he calls his own.

II.

A plain New England ploughman; true in word, In manners gentle, open-hearted, kind.

But, though in noisy contest never heard,

He bears a steadfast and judicious mind.
Soon as the morn its journey doth renew,
And scatters bright "the rear of darkness thin,"
In distant fields his hands their task pursue;

Nor less at home the early cares begin

Of those who milk the cows, and those who gaily spin.

III.

Nor deem from toil that he hath no release; "T is true, his bread by watchful care is won; But with the coming eve his labors cease, And he is happy when his work is done. And once a year his brightly beaming hearth Shines brighter yet-upon Thanksgiving day. Loud sounds the merry voice of childhood's mirth, While those of riper years, who live away, Returning from afar, their annual visits pay.

IV.

Behold! in chaise or wagon they appear, Approaching glad their own, their native hill; Where stands the home, to early childhood dear, The home, where deep affection lingers still. Once more, with beating heart, once more they see The scattered cottages, the pastures wide, The modest church, the overhanging tree, The distant forests, waving in their pride, And all to memory dear, to early joys allied.

V.

How strong the charm, when early life is new,
Which binds itself to each familiar scene;
The humble school-house claims again their view,
Upon its solitary patch of green.

There were they wont their childish skill to try.
The birch still grew beside the aged door,
And thence the eager school-dame, passing by,
Detached the rod, which awfully she bore,
As with laborious care she taught her simple lore:

VI.

With gratulations oft and warm, they bless
Every loved object which they recognize.
The ancient orchard and its cider-press,

And slow-paced Dobbin greet again their eyes.
They mark the ploughshare in the glebe it broke,
And as their eager gaze they round bestow,
They praise the oxen, parted from the yoke,
That graze the fields, as yet unclothed with snow,
And wake the echoes oft, with loudly uttered low.

VII.

And see, they turn again with kindling eye, And hail the towering oaks expanding wide. Beneath those oaks, when evening gilt the sky, Full many a feat of speed and strength they tried. Nor, while their frequent glances they prolong, Do they forget the stream, whose verdant shore Resounded loud with many a wild bird's song. With lusty arm they swam its waves of yore, Or, borne in well-built boat, applied the vigorous oar.