Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain,
He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said,
"Thy will, O God--Thy will be done, not mine!"
His gentle wife, a dozen summers since,
Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven;
And her best gift--a maiden sweetly named--
His daughter Ruth--orders the ancient house,
And fills her mother's place beside the board,
And cheers his life with songs and industry.
But who are these who crowd the house to-night--
A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who,
Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours
With the sweet jargon of a festival?
Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who
These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve;
And gathered home, from fresher homes around,
The old man's children keep the holiday--
In dear New England, since the fathers slept--
The sweetest holiday of all the year.
John comes with Prudence and her little girls,
And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys--
Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names--
Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel;
And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house,
Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day
By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe
And the tall poet David, at whose side
She went away. And seated in the midst,