O, GREENLY and
fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of
the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock
and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad
leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which
o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited
to know that his warning was true,
And longed for
the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of
the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of
the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with
the fruit of the tangled wine laden;
And the Creole
of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through
orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer
delight from his home in the North,
On the fields
of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where
crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of
September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on
Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,
From North and
from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the
gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board
The old broken
links of affection restored,
When the
care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn
matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens
the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back
the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie?
O, fruit loved
of boyhood! the old days recalling;
When
wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly
faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out
through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed
round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a
broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,
Telling tales
of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a
pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for
thy present! -- none sweeter or better
E'er smoked
from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands
never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes
never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer,
which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart
that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days
of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of
thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be
as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted
and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie!
John Greenleaf Whittier, American Poet, 1807 - 1892
