Thanksgiving.

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]     Father, our thanks are due to thee     For many a blessing given,     By thy paternal love and care,     From the bounty-horn of heaven.     We know that still that horn is filled     With blessings for our race,     And we calmly look thro' winter's storm     To thy benignant face.     Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,     Who seldom thanked before;     And seldom bent the stubborn knee     Thy goodness to adore:     But Father, thou hast blessings poured     On all our wayward days     And now thy mercies manifold     Have filled our hearts with praise     The winter-storm may rack and roar;     We do not fear its blast;     And we'll bear with faith and fortitude     The lot that thou hast cast.     But Father, Father, O look down     On the poor and homeless head     And feed the hungry thousands     That cry to thee for bread.     Thou givest us our daily bread;     We would not ask for more;     But, Father, give their daily bread     To the multitudes of poor.     In all the cities of the land     The naked and hungry are;     O feed them with thy manna, Lord,     And clothe them with thy care.     Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,     We will not give a stone;     For the bread and meat thou givest us     Are not for us alone.     And while a loaf is given to us     From thy all-bounteous horn     We'll cheerfully divide that loaf     With the hungry and forlorn.