Wherever at noontide my spirit may be,
At evening it silently wanders to thee;
It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest,
As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.
Through the battle of life--through its sorrow and care--
Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,--
Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son,
I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.
1859.
THANKSGIVING.
[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]
Father, our thanks are due to thee
For many a blessing given,
By thy paternal love and care,
From the bounty-horn of heaven.
We know that still that horn is filled
With blessings for our race,
And we calmly look thro' winter's storm
To thy benignant face.
Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,--
Who seldom thanked before;
And seldom bent the stubborn knee
Thy goodness to adore:
But Father, thou hast blessings poured
On all our wayward days
And now thy mercies manifold
Have filled our hearts with praise
The winter-storm may rack and roar;
We do not fear its blast;
And we'll bear with faith and fortitude
The lot that thou hast cast.
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