Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/402

 386 HANNAH E. G. AREY. [1840-50. For the visions of eld in his soul awake : The scenes of his childhood are round him now. Oh, this is a day when the thought goes back O'er the fiowerj paths of our early years ; Where the garlands of joy have strewn the track And hidden the graves of our hopes and fears, And the names of the friends whose tones we lack, Steal over the heart like a gush of tears. 'Tis the hour when kindred circles meet — That still must the wandei-er homeward bring — When the echo of childhood's tireless feet, Through the halls of their father's homestead ring — When gladness breathes in the tones we greet. And a murmur of love to the lips doth spring. Come forth, come forth, to the humble cot, Where the children of want and sorrow rove — Where the hand of the reaper garners not The stores that a Father's goodness prove ; And the poor man weeps for the toilsome lot. Entailed on the heirs of his earnest love. Come forth to the fields, with the heai't which leaves A blessing, wherever its trace appears ; To lighten the song which soitow -weaves, Where poverty's portion is steeped in tears ; And freely fling, from your bursting sheaves. Like the reapers of Boaz, the gleaning ears. We hallow the day as our fathers did, With a mingling of gladness, and praise, and prayer, With a willing boon for the lowliest shed. That the hungry and poor in our thanks may share. That the scantiest table be freely spread, And the Hp of the mourner a blessing bear. For the sons of the feeble pilgrim band, Who first on a distant rock-bound bay, Gave thanks for the gifts of the teeming land, Have spread over mountain and stream away; And a song of praise shall to God ascend From a myriad of burning lips to-day. Come forth, come forth, with the chiming bell, A joyous throng to the altar's side ; Come mingle your tones with the organ's swell ; And, where the door of the feast stands wide. Let the gray-haired sire to his grandchild tell A tale of our Nation's grateful pride. THE FIREMAN. Amid the flames he stood. And the white smoke formed his wreath — And the swelling waves, of the fiery flood, Came surging from beneath. The crackling timbers reeled — And the brands came gleaming down, Like the scattered wealth that the forests yield, When their autumn leaves ai'e brown.