Harvest Home.
1 The last full wain has come,--has come!
And brought the golden harvest home:
The labors of the year are done:
Accept our thanks, all-bounteous One!
2 For the green spring, her herbs and flowers,
For the warm summer's blooming bowers,
For all the fruits that flush the boughs,
When russet autumn decks her brows;
3 For the bright sun, whose fervid ray
Ripens the corn, and cheers the day;
For the round moon, whose yellow light
Gilds the long labors of the night;
4 For the rich sea of shining grain,
That spreads its waves o'er hill and plain,
For the cool breeze, whose light wings fan
The weary, sun-burnt husbandman;
5 For the soft herbage of the soil,
For ruddy health, the child of toil;
For all the good the year displays,
Accept, O God, our grateful praise.