All hail the day so well begun
In sixteen hundred twenty-one,—
When on New England’s iron coast
Our fathers thanked the Lord of Hosts
For watchful care
That winters famine that distrest
Gave place to summer days that blest
Their little wood-girt fields forlorn,—
The humble pumpkin and the corn,—
These filled the Indian summer’s haze
With songs of peace, with words of praise
And earnest prayer.

They little dreamed beyond the wood,
Fencing their sea-girt solitude,
On highland prairies of the west,
Along the rugged Pine Ridge crest
In thankful way;
Frontiering in Nebraska’s storm,
With hearts as earnest and as warm,
Sons of the Pilgrim Fathers’ stock
Would praise the Lord of Plymouth Rock—
And with them join New England’s song
That mingled host, that refuged throng,
Fled from the Old World's tribute place,—
Celt, Saxon, Slav and Latin race,—
Partakers of their free estate
Two hundred seventy years from date
Of their Thanksgiving Day.

November, 1891.


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