For an Autumn Festival

THE PERSIAN’S flowery gifts, the shrine

Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more;

The woven wreaths of oak and pine

Are dust along the Isthmian shore.

But beauty hath its homage still,

And nature holds us still in debt;

And woman’s grace and household skill,

And manhood’s toil, are honored yet.

And we, to-day, amidst our flowers

And fruits, have come to own again

The blessings of the summer hours,

The early and the latter rain;

To see our Father’s hand once more

Reverse for us the plenteous horn

Of autumn, filled and running o’er

With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!

Once more the liberal year laughs out

O’er richer stores than gems or gold;

Once more with harvest-song and shout

Is Nature’s bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,

Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;

Her lap is full of goodly things,

Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

Oh, favors every year made new!

Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent!

The bounty overruns our due,

The fulness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;

We murmur, but the corn-ears fill,

We choose the shadow, but the sun

That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soil

The power to make it Eden-fair,

And richer fruits to crown our toil

Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?

Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?

Or sighs for dainties far away,

Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom’s arm

Can change a rocky soil to gold,—

That brave and generous lives can warm

A clime with northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers

And piled with fruits, awake again

Thanksgivings for the golden hours,

The early and the latter rain!

1859.

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