Classic Poem

Hark! 'tis the voice of harvest home
That rings athwart the welkin dome,
And fields and forests, hills and skies,
Are clothed in bright autumnal dyes;
The gen'rous earth her treasures yields,
And golden sheaves bestrew the fields,
And sweeping fleet the rigs along
The bands of sturdy reapers throng
Gath'ring in heaps earth's bounteous load,
Hymning in heart, " All praise to God! "

Hail, happy field! hail, joyous sight!
Where manhood strong, and beauty bright,
Invest with life the laughing plain,
Each striving foremost place to gain;
From group to group the farmer flies
With cheerful tones and eager eyes,
He knows that friendly joke or hint
Works wonders when it's kindly meant,
And sometimes ere the day be past
They lead the first who lagged the last.

Come now, your sickles nimbly ply,
Trust not that richly mottled sky,
For lazy vapours, grey and cold,
Are creeping o'er the distant wold;
Then haste, press on, no time for talk,
Come bind and fork, come lead and stack,
That mellow moon yields ample light,
Come, have your harvest-home to-night,
Nor leave ungathered on the plain
One single sheaf of golden grain.

The harvest moon, the harvest moon,
Praise God for that most grateful boon;
From dewy eve till grey-eyed morn
She scatters gold o'er ripening corn,
And flickering through the chequered leaves
She studs with gems the bristly sheaves,
And cheers the weary reapers on
Until their timely labour 's done;
Then praise Him, morning, eve, and noon,
Who gives to Earth her harvest moon.

But, see the harvest maiden Queen,
Borne lightly laughing o'er the green,
With blushing cheek and sparkling eye
She waves her treasured prize on high;
Admiring rustics strive in vain
Approving smile or glance to gain,
For her dear Sandy's coming soon
Far o'er the moor, 'neath that bright moon,
With her through yellow fields to stray,
And fix their happy bridal day.

The fields are swept, the barns are filled,
In long straight rows, huge stacks are piled,
In graceful forms they rise on high
Beneath the farmer's keen grey eye,
Who with artistic skill and care
Must have them built to taper fair.
Old grandame's fowls are clucking heard
Rejoicing in the rich barn-yard,
And happy groups of peasants come
To welcome jocund harvest-home.

The board is heaped with ample cheer,
And all are linked in friendship dear,
And on one level all are raised,
And all are pleased, and all are praised;
Till roused by pipes and fiddles sweet
The happy groups start to their feet,
And dance, and skip, and cleek, and reel,
And bob, and bound, and whirl, and wheel,
Till floors and windows shake and clatter,
And distance whispers, " What's the matter? "

Hail, rural mirth and rustic glee!
Hail, honest pure simplicity!
With lively dance, and joyous song,
Your jocund merriment prolong;
And while your bosoms grateful glow
To Him whose bounties round you flow,
And while your thoughts are raised to Heaven,
Be 't yours to give as He has given,
Whose sun and moon illume yon dome,
Who gives you gen'rous harvest-home.