Volume 33 — THE THANKSGIVING OF THE SORROWFUL.

"Thanksgiving," said the preacher. "What hast thou, Oh heart"—I asked—"for which to render thanks! What—crushed and stricken—canst thou here recall Worthy for this rejoicing. That thy home Hath suddenly been made so desolate; Or that the love for which thy being yearned Through years of youth, was given but to show How fleet are life's enjoyments? For the smile That never more shall greet thee at the dawn, Or the low, earnest blessing, which at eve Merged thoughts of human love in dreams of Heaven; That these are taken wilt thou now rejoice? That thou art censured, where thou seekest love— And all thy purest thoughts, are turned to ill Soon as they knew expression? Offerest praise That such has been thy lot in earliest youth? "Thou murmurer!"—thus whispered back my heart, "Thou—of all others—shouldst this day give thanks: Thanks for the love which for a little space Made thy life beautiful, and taught thee well By precept, and example, so to act That others might in turn be blessed by thee. The patient love, that checked each wayward word; The holy love, that turned thee to thy God— Fount of all pure affection! Hadst thou dwelt Longer in such an atmosphere, thy strength Had yielded to the weakness of idolatry, Forgetting Him, the Giver, in his gifts. So He recalled them. Ay, for that rejoice, That thou hast added treasure up in Heaven; O, let thy heart dwell with thy treasure there; The dream shall thus become reality. The blessing may be resting on thy brow Cold as it is with sorrow. Thou hast lost The love of earth—but gained an angel's care. And that the world views thee with curious eyes, Wronging the pure expression of thy thoughts,— Censure may prove to thee as finer's fire, That purifies the gold." Then gave I thanks, Reproved by that low whisper. Father hear! Forgive the murmurer thus in love rebuked; And may I never cease through all to pay This tribute to thy bounty.