Thanksgiving

When the golden morn is treading, 
     Like an angel o'er the earth ;
Glory round his pathway shedding—
     Calling songs of gladness forth:
And the wild-birds, from the treasures 
     Of their grateful hearts renew
Hymns of praise, in joyful measures, 
     To their God and Nature true;
Shall not man the couch forsaking,
     Mindful of the gifts of God, 
Higher, nobler anthems waken
     To proclaim his praise abroad?

When the sweet and modest flower, 
     Grateful for the dews of even, 
Blushing in its fragrant bower,
     Gives its silent thanks to Heaven;
And the many-scented valleys,
     Crowned with diadems of bloom,
Where the bee hath built his palace, 
     Give their incense and perfume;
While the hum of insect-millions,
     Piping to the setting sun,
Sure the wild weed’s green pavilions, 
     With their praise, till day is done: 
Shall we, then, in sinful blindness, 
     Turn from blessing God away —
Heedless of the loving-kindness 
     That hạth kept us all the day?

Oh, it we would learn of Nature, 
     Could our tongues be dumb to praise,
When all Earth to Earth's Creator 
     Pours her thousand varied lays?
Join we, then, in pure thanksgiving, 
     Nature's universal songs;
Morn and eve, pour, all ye living,
     Praise to whom your praise belongs.