Golden is the harvest field,
Bright the sky above,
And its orb a burning shield
On the arm of Jove;
Hot the wearied reaper toils
Till the day is done,
And the flashing ocean boils
Round the setting sun.
O, some cool, some midnight cave
By the rushing river,
There my beating pulse to lave,
Sleep and dream for ever!

All are now in serious strife,
Gathering in their grain;
'T is their being, hope, and life:—
Hark! the hurrying wain,—
No! the distant thunder peal,
Rolling from the hills:—
See the eddying tempest wheel!
How it swells and stills!
High above its brazen van
Juts—behind it roars
Wind, hail, thunder;—what is man,
When the deluge pours!
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