Thanksgiving Poems

Below is a poem that was published in 1880 in the Victorian Review, Vol. 3 pg 518. It was written by William Allen. I wasn't able to find anything about William Allen apart from this poem.

A THANKSGIVING.
I Thank Thee, Lord, because Thou dost ordain
Strength out of weakness, blessing out of pain;
For all of light through darkness brought to birth,
I thank Thee, O Thou Lord of Heaven and earth.
But, chief of all Thy gifts sent from above,
I thank Thee for the sovereign grace of love-
Choicest of all the boons to mortals known,
A ray of glory from the eternal throne.
See where this feeble sufferer lies ! a prey
To long-drawn pains that waste his life away;
While o'er his couch his faithful partner hangs,
And in her own fond bosom feels his pangs.
And once again her anxious watch behold,
Beside the one pet darling of the fold,
As forced, with breaking heart and streaming eye,
To own the hateful truth—" my child must die."
And is there nothing here but grief and gloom—
The grim attendants of the unlovely tonibl
Far be the thought! Here flowers of Eden blow,
Luxuriant in the midst of human woe.
Here the fair flower of love its fragrance yields,
To earth transplanted from the heavenly fields,—
So fair as almost with a grace to wreathe
The frightful features of the monster death.

'Tis love that bids the unwearying vigil keep,
And gives to tireless toil the hours of sleep;
Of wifely care, maternal watch and ward,
The keen inspirer and the sole reward.
Love lights the eyes (to love responsive given)
Of the child-angel on the verge of heaven;
And love unspeakable the husband shares
With her whose tender kindness soothes his cares.
Then, blest be God! who good from evil brings,
And round the ghastly grave a radiance flings,
Gilding with love a lot else all forlorn,
The grievous lot of those o'er death who mourn.
Dear Son of God! Dear love of God ! we pray
Take from our hearts all lovelessness away,
So shall Thy Spirit through our actions shine,
And make the meanest toil of life divine. 
Wm. Allen.

Mary Had a Little Lamb

Well, we all know the nursery rhyme and most of us have taught it to our children. Did you know it was written May 24, 1830 by Sarah Josepha Hale. At the time she was a widow and had come to work as an editor for Ladies' Magazine in Boston. The title of the poem was originally Mary's Lamb.

Godey's purchased the Ladies Magazine in 1837 and she continued to work for Godey's Lady's Book and stayed in Boston while her youngest son finished college at Harvard.

She retired in 1877 at the age of 89. Another interesting tidbit, that same year, Alexander Graham Bell recorded the first phonograph speaking the first lines of Mary's Lamb.

She believed in higher education for women and helped form Vassar College. She published nearly 50 volumes of work in her lifetime.

Who would have thought a nursery rhyme would lead to such a prominent life in the 19th century?

Blacksmith from McGuffey Reader

Below you'll find a poem written by Longfellow and published in the McGuffey Reader in 1853, this was the fifth grade reader. The poem was originally published in 1841 in Ballads and Other Poems. Please note the punctuation is what was written in the 1853 Reader. Today you can find the poem with different punctuation, much less actually. This poem was later scored by Charles F. Noyes in 1848.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
1. Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands,
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands`;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

2. His hair is crisp, and black, and long`;
His face is like the tan`;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can`,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

3. Week in', week out` from morn' till nigh`.
You can hear his bellows blow`;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow`,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

4. And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door`;
They love to see the flaming forge',
And hear the bellows roar`,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

5. He goes, on Sunday, to the church,
And sits among his boys`;
He hears the parson pray and preach`,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

6. It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise`!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies`;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

7. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes`;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it c!ose`,
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

8. Thanks`, thanks to thee, my worthy friend',
For the lesson thou hast taught`!
Thus, at the flaming forge of life',
Our fortunes must be wrought`,
Thus, on its sounding anvil', shaped
Each burning deed and thought`.

H.W. Longfellow ©1841

Poetry

I've come to realize that a great deal of emphasis was put on poetry during the 19th century. My understanding is that poetry is very difficult to sell to publishers today but this didn't seem to be the case in the 19th century. Admittedly, I've never been a huge fan of poetry, in large part because I didn't understand it. However, my husband was raised hearing and reading it and when he reads a poem it does come to life for me.

All of that is to say that I find these two poems interesting. They were published in 1847 by Rev J.L. Merrick. The two poems below express his arrival to Charleston, SC and his departure.

APPROACHING CHARLESTON, S.C.
Hail, Charleston! there you stand as when
I saw you first from ocean ;
I view your spires and domes again,
With thrilling deep emotion.

An invalid, from northern climes,
How kindly you received me ;
My grateful heart recalls the times
Your friendly hand relieved me.

A cloud upon my prospects then
With angry brow was low'ring,
That very cloud, like vernal rain,
Rich blessings on me show'rmg,

Has overpassed, and now the bow,
On its dark bosom glowing,
Betokens good the way I go,
Eternal life-seed sowing.

LEAVING CHARLESTON.
Farewell, dear Charleston friends, farewell!
I may no more return,
Yet e'er for you this heart will swell,
This grateful bosom burn.

When orient suns shall light my way
Through distant Moslim lands,
For you I still will fervent pray
Mid flowers or barren sands.

We'll meet each other at the throne
Where grace and joy are given ;
And when our pilgrim course is done,
We'll meet to dwell in heaven.

The Dark Knight by Henry G. Bell

This isn't the kind of a poem I would normally read or post but as I skim through some of the references in Google books about the Dark Knight this 1830 poem (It could have been published before that date but that is the earliest I found it.) seems to have influenced a far amount of writings during the 19th Century. This 1830 poem was printed in "The Edinburgh Literary Journal." The following year, Bell published a book of poems "Summer and Winter Hours." in which he included this poem.

THE DARK KNIGHT A BALLAD.
By Henry G. Bell

There came a dark knight from a far countrie,
And no one ever saw his face, for he
Wore his black vizor down continuallie.

He came to a gay bridal, where the bride
Stood, in rich robes, her destined lord beside,
Who gazed upon her with a joyful pride.

And there was music in the sunny sky,
And mirthful voices made a glad reply,—
And there was music in the young bride's eye.

Yet ever and anon her look would fall
On the dark knight who stood apart from all,—
Dark as his shadow, moveless on the wall.

The words were spoken, and the bridal o'er,
And now the mirth grew louder than before;
Why stands the dark knight silent at the door?

The hour grows late, and one by one depart
The guests, with bounding step and merry heart,—
Methought I saw that new-wed ladie start.

N'one in her father's hall are left but she
And her young bridegroom, who, as none may see,
Hath twined his arm around her lovinglie.

Yes,—there is still a third—the vizor'd knight,—
Mark you the glancing of his corslet bright,
Mark you his eye that glares with such strange light?

He moves on slowly through the lofty room,
And as he moves there falls a deeper gloom,—
That heavy tread, why sounds it of the tomb?

And through the castle there was stillness deep,
A drearier stillness than the calm of sleep,—
Closer, in silent awe, the lovers creep.

—A shriek was heard at midnight, such as broke
On every ear, like the first pealing stroke
Of the alarm bell, and the sleepers woke!

In the old hall where fitful moonlight shone,
There lay the bridegroom and the bride alone,
Pale, dead, and cold as monumental stone,—
A vizor'd helm was near, but the dark knight was gone.

Table Manners & Goops

I stumbled across this illustrated poem and thought it a fun piece to share with all of you. Although I will admit that a "goop" was a new expression for me.

You can read more about Goops with Goops and How to Be Them, a Manual of Manners by Gelett Burgess. It is available from Google Books for free online. It was originally published in 1900. Here is the link to Guttunberg's page for the book with the links to the various types of format. Link Although I have seen references to the book in publications from 1893-1898.

Ten Christmas Presents

A poem that was published several times during the 19th Century was by Carolyn Wells called "Christmas Gifts" but commonly referred to as "Ten Christmas Presents."

Ten Christmas presents standing in a line;
Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.
Nine Christmas presents ranged in order straight;
Bob took the steam engine, then there were eight.
Eight Christmas presents--and one came from Devon;
Robbie took the jackknife, then there were seven.
Seven Christmas presents direct from St. Nick's;
Bobby took the candy box, then there were six.
Six Christmas presents, one of them alive;
Rob took the puppy dog, then there were five.
Five Christmas presents yet on the floor;
Bobbin took the soldier cap, then there were four.
Four Christmas presents underneath the tree;
Bobbet took the writing desk, then there were three.
Three Christmas presents still in full view;
Robin took the checker board, then there were two.
Two Christmas presents, promising fun,
Bobbles took the picture book, then there was one.
One Christmas present--and now the list is done;
Bobbinet took the sled, and then there were none.
And the same happy child received every toy,
So many nicknames had one little boy.

Here's the illustration that was in the St. Nicholas magazine from 1898

Thanksgiving Poem

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

THANKSGIVING POEM,-1876.
[Read at Thanksgiving Service in Waverly Church.]

All hail, thou grand Festival! glad are the hands
That crown thee with blossoms, and joyous the bands
Round thy tables of plenty, thine altars of praise,
Where the millions have gathered, their anthems to raise.

Thanksgiving for blessings a century old;
Ah, well may our hearts in their fulness unfold
As we wait on the threshold of an era sublime,
The pride of the nations, the marvel of time.

We join the glad anthems that tremble and ring
From ocean to ocean in praise of our King,
And then a new altar of gratitude rear
For blessings peculiar, vouchsafed to us here.

No temple more sacred than ours, to-day,
Nor feet ever readier to tread the glad way
To the Holy of Holies, to gratefully raise
Our prayers of thanksgiving, our peans of praise.
One year with its mercies; recount them to-day,
These love-laden mercies that garland our way,
The year that began with foreboding and fears,
Whose bow in the clouds was prayer shining through tears.
Ah! the shadows were dark that were over us then,
And we looked lor the "lining of silver," in vain;
Our faltering faith scarce could pilot us through;
Our courage was waning, our numbers were few.

Then came to our rescue, (Heaven sent her this way,)
Our sister, God honored, we bless her to-day,
Her hands held the sickle for the reapers to come,
And we shouted together the glad "harvest home."

Unstop the glad organ, send strain after strain,
'Till these old walls shall echo and echo again
With an anthem more glorious, a thousand times o'er
Than ever has rung through its portals before.

For Heaven has bent till the sun of its love
Has tinged these dull walls like the glory above,
And the wing of the seraph has rustled, I ween,
The darkness of sin and God's sunlight, between.

The young man and maiden, and life in its prime,
And the child in the freshness of life's sweet spring-time,
And the husband and wife, blest bethrothal ta share,
Have knelt at the altar for pardon and prayer.

There are voices to-day in thanksgiving and song
That were silent and tuneless in years that are gone,
And the shout of the angels has sounded again
As they wrote on the fair book of life each new name.

But a shepherd was asked, lest the lambs lose their way,
And the flock should be scattered, and wander astray,
And now to the prayer " Lord, by whonq wilt thou send?"
We greeted our brother as pastor and friend.

So we gather to-day in this home ot our God,
With a greeting for loved ones anear and abroad,
And as here, with our greetings and gladness we come,
We would we might welcome each wanderer home.

How I love the old custom, grown dearer with time.
The genuine thanksgiving of "Auld Lang Syne,"

When the family, wide scattered, back thronging would come
To meet the warm kiss and the s,weet welcome home.

When the old-fashioned table with dainties was spread,
And father sat down in his place at the head
With his family around him, once children at home,
With a plate in reserve for the wandering one.

And the mother's eye glistened as they drew round the board,
And the father's voice choked in the blessing implored,
With a prayer for the "wanderer" echoed by all.
As they hoped for his coming and longed for his call.

Such the olden " thanksgiving" remembered and blest,
That points to a grander re-union at last,
When the children shall come from the West and the East
To song and rejoicing, to welcome and feast.

O! to hear the "Come in" from the royal pearl-gate
Where the Father for each of his children shall wait,
While the bright hills of glory shall echo and ring,
As they welcome the long coming wanderer in.

All Hail! then, Thanksgiving, like mile-posts that stand
Each, in turn drawing nearer some city at hand,
So ye are the waymarks that yearly ascend
Toward a glorious thanksgiving that never shall end.
Source: For Friendship's Sake ©1882

Irish Stew

Below are several examples of Irish Stew. The novel I'm working on now has a bloke who's Irish and well, there's a moment when he's wanting his mother's Irish stew but then he takes another forkful of the spicy cuban beef.

I've also added a poem and a comedic chorus from the 19th century referring to this common meal.

Anyway here are the various recipes.

Cutlets a la Irish Stew.
Get the best end of a neck of mutton, take off the under bone, and cut it into chops; season them with pepper, salt, a little mushroom powder, and beaten mace. Put them into a stewpan, add a large onion sliced, some parsley and thyme tied in a bunch, and a pint or veal broth. Simmer the chops till three parts done, then add some whole potatoes peeled, and let them stew till done. Serve it up in a deep dish.
N. B. Let the parsley and thyme be taken out when the stew is to be served up.
Source: Art of Cooking Made Easy and Refined ©1808

IrishStew.—There are two possible reasons for the name of this dish. The first is Hibernian—it is unknown in Ireland; the second is that the stuff of which Irishmen are made is redundant in it—potatoes. The Irish are not cooks. They are the most agreeable of companions at table, but they have done nothing to furnish the table except in the way of Usquebagh—water of life—which, however, it must be admitted is an immense achievement, worthy of the magicians, and proving beyond a doubt that in the olden time Ireland was the abode of giants.
Irish stew is a white ragout of mutton with potatoes for the chief garnish. Most ragouts are brown—it being always easier to heighten the flavour of a sauce by browning it than by trusting to mere decoction. What is called the haricot of mutton, for example, is browned. The beautiful simplicity of the Irish stew would be lost if it were allowed in any way to brown. The potatoes are so important in it that they are always double the weight of the meat, and the only other vegetable that they go with is the onion—which may be much or little according to taste. In the true Irish stew, too, both potatoes and onions are exceedingly well done, so that they are half reduced to a mash.
Take the neck of mutton and divide it into cutlets, well trimmed of the fat. No objection to some of the breast divided into squares. Season the pieces plentifully with pepper and slightly with salt. Place the meat in a deep stewpan with six or eight onions : cover it with water, and let it simmer for half an hour. As Irish stew must not be greasy, the liquor is then poured off, and poured back again after the grease has been removed. In the meantime potatoes have been got ready, parboiled and peeled. They should amount after peeling to twice the weight of the meat. They are added to the stew with a pint of broth or else a like quantity of water; and the whole is left to simmer for an hour and a half. See in serving it that it has salt enough and a decided flavour of the pepper pot.
In Scotland they produce exactly such a stew, cover it over with a crust, and call it Shepherd's pie. In Devonshire and Cornwall they make this pie, put apples into it instead of potatoes, and announce it as Devonshire, Cornish, or Squab pie. The Shepherd's pie of Scotland is evidently too farinaceous—potatoes within and paste without. The housewives of Devonshire and Cornwall are much more artistic in keeping to one kind of farina—the paste, and putting inside the pie only apples and onions. As the combination of apples and onions in the way of garniture has been long dedicated in England to pork, the Devonians and Cornishmen have also decided that their pie shall do honour to pork as often as to mutton—perhaps oftener.
Source: Kettner's book of the table ©1877

Irish Stew.—Take from two to three pounds of chops from tho best end of a neck of mutton, and pare away nearly all tho fat, for an Irish Stew should not be greasy. If liked a portion of tho breast may be cut into squares and used, but a neck of mutton is the best joint for the purpose. Take as many potatoes as will unount after peeling to twice the weight of tho meat. Slice them, and slice also eight largo onions. Put a layer of mixed potatoes and onions at tho bottom of a stowpan. Placo tho meat on this and season it plentifully with pepper and slightly with salt. Pack tho ingredients closely, and cover the moat with artother layer of potato and onion. Pour in as much water or stock as will moisten the topmost layer, cover tho stowpan tightly, and lot its contents simmer gently for three hours. Be careful not to remove the lid, as this will let out the flavour.
Irish Stew (another way).—Put some neat chops, cut from the neck of mutton, into a stewpan; they should be trimmed, and the bonea shortened a little. Braise them for half an hour, and season with pepper, salt, and a few chopped mushrooms. Butter a mould, and thickly line it with mashed potatoes; lay in the chops, and bake. When done, turn out on a hot dish, and pourr in some good gravy through an opening on the top. Time, about half an hour to bako. Two dozen potatoes will bo quite sufficient for this dish.
Source: Cassell's Dictionary of Cookery ©1883

A Poem
IRISH STEW.
an "Happy Land."

Irish stew, Irish stew I
Whatever else my dinner be, Once again, once again,
I'd have a dish of thee.

Mutton chops, and onion slice,
Let the water cover,
With potatoes, fresh and nice;
Boil, but not quite over,
Irish stew, Irish stew 1
Ne'er from thee, my taste will stray.
I could eat
Such a treat
Nearly every day.

La,la,la,
Source Humorous Poetry of the English Language ©1884


HURRAH FOR AN IRISH STEW.
An Original Parody, by J. Brace Wright.
Air.—Bonnets of Blue.
Hurrah for an Irish stew,
Hurrah for an Irish stew,
It's season'd so fine, and its flavour's divine,
Hurrah for an Irish stew.

It's good with pepper and salt,
It's good with potatoes a few, There's nought can equal, in this grubbing world, An elegant Irish stew.
Then hurrah (or an Irish stew,
Hurrah for an Irish stew,
It's season'd so fine, and its flavour's divine,
Hurrah for an Irish stew.

If you'd ask a young lover to dine,
And have him prove kind unto you,
To make love come out of his beautiful mouth,

You should stuff it with Irish stew.
Here's a health to John Bull and his beef,

Here's a health to Sandy and brew,
Here's a health to Paddy, good luck in brief,
Success to his Irish stew.

Then hurrah for an Irish stew,
Hurrah for an Irish stew,
It's season'd so fine, and its flavour's divine,
Och ! good luck to an Irish stew.
Source: Melodist and Mirthful Olio ©1828