Hymn of the Harvesters

Hymn of the Harvesters

We gather them in, the bright green leaves,

With our scythes and rakes to-day,

And the mow grows big, as the pitcher heaves

His lift in the swelt'ring hay.

Oh, ho! a-field! for the mower's sythe

Has a ring as of destiny,

Sweeping the earth of its burden lithe,

As it sung in wrathful glee.

We gather them in, the modding plumes

Of the yellow and bearded grain,

And the flash of our sickles' light illumes

Our march o'er the vanquished plain.

Anon, we come with the steed-drawn car,

The cunning of modern laws;

And acres stoop to its clanking jar,

As it rocks its hungry jaws.

We gather them in, the mellow fruits

From the shrub, the vine and tree,

With their russet, and golden, and purple suits,

To garnish our treasury.

And each has a juicy treasure stored

All a'neath its tainted rind,

To cheer our guests at the social board,

When we leave your cares behind.

We gather them in—this goodly store—

But not with the miser's gust,

For this great All-Father we adore,

Hath but given it in trust;

And our work of death is but for life,

In the wintry days to come—

Then a blessing upon the reaper's strife,

Anda. shout at his harvest home.

1:9, p. 1

9.17.1859