ORIGINAL ODE. 



Once more a festive band to-day, 



In festive halls we meet, 

 And gathering from our scattered homes, 



Our friends and kindred greet. 



This ripened fruit, this bending grain, 



This wealth of floral bloom. 

 Unite to fill the favored hour 



With gladness and perfume. 



The seed was sown in patient toil, 

 Not knowing which should thrive ; 



But trusting Him Avhose care alone 

 Could keep its germs alive. 



To-day, on other, sadder fields, 



Yet other seed is sown, 

 And when its harvest day shall rise, 



God knoweth — He alone ! 



