The L'Anse sentinel., 1917-11-24
AS SUNG BY POETS
Old and New Thanksgiving
Sentiments Worth
Recording.
ABINDRANATH TAGoRE. the

IN ABINDRANATH TAGORE, the
~ Hindu-English poet, recently
contributed to the London
Times the following verses on
Thanksgiving" which are as unlike
the conventional Thanksgiving poem
In sentiment as they are in form:
Those who walk on the path OF pride
crushing the lowly life under their tread.
spreading their footprints In blood
upon the tender green of thy earth.
Let them rejoice. and thank thee. Lord.
for the day Is theirs.
But thou hast done well In leaving me
with the humble
whose doom II is to suffer
and bear the burden of power,
and hide their faces and stlfie their sobs
In the dark.
For every throb of their pain
has pulsed in the secret depth OF thy
night.
and every insult has been gathered
In thy great silence.
And the morrow is theirs.
Sun. rise upon the bleeding hearts
blossoming in flowers of the morning
hiding In its own aisles!
There is, of course, nothing new In
dissent from that Snug piety that re-
turns thanks because its possessor is
mot as other men are" be 1t in world
ly possessions. in bodily health In
mental equipment or even in moral
inheritance. Robert Burns long ago
satirized one aspect of such self-com-
placencc In "The SelEirk Grace:
Some hae meat and Gamma eat.
And some wad eat that want it:
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sac the Lord be thankit.
William Blake, in one of those
quantity phrased little poems of his
that have almost the flavor of esoteric
wisdom. declares:
Since all the riches OF this world
May be gifts from the devil and earthly
kings
should suspect that 1 worshiped the
II thanked my God for worldly things.
The countless gold of a merry heart,
The rubes and pearls OF loving eye.
The ideal man never can bring to the
mart
Nor the cunning hoard up in his treas
ury.
And in recent years Edmund Vance
Cooke, u poet of whom Cleveland, the
sixth city," should be proud, has
| sung:
We thank thee. Yea, in the even tone
OF those who are glad OF the goods they
own.
We thank thee. Yea. that thou hast pre-
ferred
And blessed us more than the common
We thank thee. part with the hearts tn
tention.
But most. let us own. with the lips con-
vention.
I'VE thank thee" Lord, What selfish
prayer!
Thanks-while beggar's breast Is bare.
Thanks that our own full feast is spread
While another creature is lacking bread!
Thanks. that our full fed blood runs warm.
While starveling baby breasts tho
storm!
| There is certainly no taint Of Tar
tuffe or ~Pecksniff in the reason that
William Ernest Henley gives for
thankfulness in his "Invictus,r but II
has something Of pharisaical AFRO
gance, notwithstanding:
| Out of the night that covers me.
| Black as the pit from pole to pole.
| ] thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerabie soul.
Algernon Charles Swinburne, in
"The Garden Of Proserpine" (from
which, by the way, Henley seems to
have borrowed his whatever gods
may be''), expresses sentiment that
in certain moods has an appeal to
many men:
From too much love Of living.
| From hope and fear set free.
We thank with brief Thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever,
| That dead men rise up never,
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea
But, after all, there Is a healthier
appeal than Swinburne's, and an APP
peal to a greater number of normal
men and women, in such fine odes as
that which the late Hezekiah Butter
worth wrote in celebration of the first
Thanksgiving In Boston Harbor":
The Arabella leads the song
The Mayfiower sings below,
That erst the Pilgrims bore along
The Plymouth reefs OF snow, M
oh. never be that psalm forgot 4
That rose DER Boston Bay,
When winthrop sang. and Endicott
And Saltonstall that day:
praise ye the Lord with fervent iipsi
Praise ye the Lord today.
And praise arose from all the shipS
Like prayers In Yarmouth Bay. 4