The Pumpkin
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- Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
- The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
- And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
- With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
- Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
- While he waited to know that his warning was true,
- And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
- For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
- On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
- Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
- And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
- Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
- Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
- On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
- Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
- And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
- Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
- From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
- When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board
- The old broken links of affection restored,
- When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
- And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
- What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
- What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
- Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
- When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
- When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
- Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
- When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
- Our chair a broad pumpkin,--our lantern the moon,
- Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,
- In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team
- Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
- E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
- Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
- Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
- And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
- Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
- That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
- And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
- And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
- Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
- 1844.
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