Republican Herald

From the Boston Commercial Gazette.
As Thanksgiving is approaching, we republish an article, written for that anniversary, in this State, about twelve years since. We are not certain as to the author, but believe it was by Longfellow.
THANKSGIVING ODE.
When young Time sung Eden's bower
And angels echoed back his strain,
Ere sin mildewed each morning flower
Of hope, and pleasure died in pain,
Each love-winged thought that rose on high
Was man's melodious prayer of praise,
And happy hearts threw o'er the sky
Blessings, as flowed the elder days,
While Heaven benignly smiled and breathed the grateful lays.
No seasons, then, by power assigned,
Restricted songs of holy praise,
For man's poor heart and pious mind
But, his high spirit higher soaring,
Threw glory o'er life's younger days;
He knowledge sought, and was unblest;
And, when he should have been adoring,
Lost Eden—love's abode of rest,
And wandered forth o'er earth, an exile sore distrest.
There was a jubilee in Heaven,
When man to being sprung, and raised
His soul in praises for blessings given,
The image of the God he praised;
And there are songs of glory swelling
O'er Heaven, e'en in these sinning days,
When man laments his long-lost dwelling,
Yet for earth's joys chants hymns of praise,
And sings in Eden's speech, though lost to Eden's ways.
For sunny skies and balmy showers,
And mellow airs, and cheerful health,
And bloomy meads and dales of flowers,
And fields of beauty rife with wealth,
And still green vales and wooded hills,
And Plenty smiling o'er each home,
Which rose-lipped Love with odour fills,
And sweet Content, who scorn to roam;
For blessings such as these, let glad Thanksgiving come.
No pestilence hath stalked abroad,
And thrown o'er bliss the funeral pall;
No sword of crime-avenging God
Hath marred man's toil-worn festival;
His earthquake voice hath not been heard
Amid the cheerful mirth of men;
The soul in peace hath drank His Word,
And Life found joy in wood and glen,
And Love crowned every bliss again—and yet again.
Pole-Star of Freedom's starry sky!
O Maine! fair daughter of the North!
Awake thy harp of melody,
And, holy Priestess! go thou forth
With voice of praise o'er Freedom land
And bid her sons in love revere
The memory of that hallowed band,
Who bowed to Heaven in forest drear
And blessed the Almighty One, whose blessings dried each tear.