 | Sacra Poesis |  |
HARVEST HOME.
Shorn of its golden crop the grateful land
Has well repaid the farmer's early toil;
Has pour'd its riches in the reaper's hand,
And lent the cheek of poverty a smile.
Has well repaid the farmer's early toil;
Has pour'd its riches in the reaper's hand,
And lent the cheek of poverty a smile.
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The barns are full, and with rich plenty stor'd,
And yet the gleaner has her humble share,
For the good God has still his blessings pour'd
On all, tho' not alike, who claim his care.
And yet the gleaner has her humble share,
For the good God has still his blessings pour'd
On all, tho' not alike, who claim his care.
And “harvest home” is now the joyous cry,
'Tis “harvest home,” the promise of the year;
The poor man's daily smile or daily sigh,
His worldly hopes and fears are centred here.
'Tis “harvest home,” the promise of the year;
The poor man's daily smile or daily sigh,
His worldly hopes and fears are centred here.
And there shall be a greater harvest home,
When Satan from his earthly kingdom hurl'd,
Our Shepherd King, our Husbandman shall come,
And love or vengeance due shall reap the world!
When Satan from his earthly kingdom hurl'd,
Our Shepherd King, our Husbandman shall come,
And love or vengeance due shall reap the world!
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