 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
A THANKSGIVING RETROSPECT
Well! Charge your glasses!—Softly, friends,
The toast we drink to-night:
“The vacant chair,” that holds the post
Of honor on our right.
“The vacant chair”—why now so grave
Your looks once bright with love?
What though our circle narrows here,
It widens still above.
The toast we drink to-night:
“The vacant chair,” that holds the post
Of honor on our right.
“The vacant chair”—why now so grave
Your looks once bright with love?
What though our circle narrows here,
It widens still above.
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We drink to him who joins the host
That left our hearth before—
Dear hands that once have clasped our own
Shall touch his on that shore;
The grandsire whose unflinching soul
Went up from Concord fight,
Shall welcome him whose youthful arm
Last year struck home for Right!
That left our hearth before—
Dear hands that once have clasped our own
Shall touch his on that shore;
The grandsire whose unflinching soul
Went up from Concord fight,
Shall welcome him whose youthful arm
Last year struck home for Right!
That though he lived where barren hills
Were white with winter snows,
Where man through stubborn toil alone
To higher nature rose:
He sleeps where never click of hail
Or ice their changes ring,
But consonants of Winter yield
To open-vowels of Spring.
Were white with winter snows,
Where man through stubborn toil alone
To higher nature rose:
He sleeps where never click of hail
Or ice their changes ring,
But consonants of Winter yield
To open-vowels of Spring.
Above him drifts the cotton-bloom
Knee-deep above his grave;
The shroud that veils his southern bed
The north-wind never gave.
His sable mourners tread a shore
Enfranchised from their toil—
Thank God! (through valor such as his)
Our own—no foreign soil!
Knee-deep above his grave;
The shroud that veils his southern bed
The north-wind never gave.
His sable mourners tread a shore
Enfranchised from their toil—
Thank God! (through valor such as his)
Our own—no foreign soil!
Then charge your glasses full, and pour
A stream as red and free
As that which from his youthful veins
Was poured for Liberty.
To-night no sorrow drown our thanks—
To-morrow tears may fall
For him who fills the vacant chair,
Yet sleeps near Tybee's wall.
A stream as red and free
As that which from his youthful veins
Was poured for Liberty.
To-night no sorrow drown our thanks—
To-morrow tears may fall
For him who fills the vacant chair,
Yet sleeps near Tybee's wall.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |