Classic Poem

 The tale is told; and Luna's height
Proclaims the lengthened march of night.
Already locked in sleep's embrace,
The ‘sanguine lad’ is on the chase;
The ‘pauvré neighbor’ rubs his eyes,
And ventures sundry comments wise
Based here and there upon a word
By dint of winking he has heard.
The grandsire lights his pipe anew,
And calls the story very true,
For he had heard it years before,
Told by the digger, o'er and o'er.
The grand dame, hitching in her chair,
To give herself a wakeful air,
Yawns forth the question,—‘let us see!
He lost the money did'nt he?’

 Renewed once more the burning pile;
And social talk is brisk the while.
A retrospect of life is made,
And future plans are careful laid.
Again is passed around the treat,
And tho' not hungry, you must eat,
Nor make refusal of the cheer—
T HANKSGIVING comes but once a year!
The watch-dogs from their kennel rouse
And think 't is morning in the house;
And, whining at the kitchen door,
Would greet their master as before.

 In order next the hymn is raised;
Their Father and their God is praised.
The key is struck, and joined to sing,
Sweet sounds the viol's tuneful string;
And while the notes in concord blend,
Old Hundred's well known strains ascend:—