The loaded fields, now ripe with yellow grain, That undulates, with waving richness fraught, ’Neath every breeze, that sweeps the bending stalk; Denotes that harvest has again arrived, To bless the fruitful land;--and echo joy From thousand thankful hearts, spontaneous felt; And who but owns the rich provision sent, Sent undeserved, by kindly Providence To man bestowed, too thankless for the grant! How lowly cottager, now smiles content, And should have cause, when such abundance pours From plenty’s fruitful barn:--so lavish spread: The sun-burnt swain, his shining sickle plies, And the full sheaf falls heavy from his hand, Scattering the grain, let fall for gleaner’s use; They round the reapers hang, the boon to catch, And, Ruth-like, bear the gathered treasure home; Perchance, an aged parent’s eye to cheer, That glistens more at thought of filial love; What sight more pleasing to an English breast, Than fields of British growth, embrowned with corn; Full eared and large, that speak abundant crop; When fear of short supply is far removed, And all a farmer’s hopes are crowned at once; Whose barns in prospect sees well stored with wheat: The sheaves to bind, a busy group attend, To gather and dispose the graceful heap; While slowly drags along, the creaking wain, High piled, that groans beneath the precious load: Such sights enlivening, every where abound At this glad season of the bounteous year; And Albion glories, is her son’s employ, To bring her native growth, mature and ripe, Safe housed in granary, or securely stacked. But other lands partake the joy, as well As England’s peasant, whom his corn fields cheer; So rustic labourer of the German States, And Poland’s breadth of land, ’neath harvest smiles, With fruitful Spain, that pours her thousands forth To gather in the produce of her soil; A rich luxuriance spreads each distant shore, And far Canadia swells with ripening grain, While “Harvest Home” resounds through every land, A joyous and exhilarating sound, That wafting should man’s gratitude bespeak; If others are unconscious of the gift, At least let Britain’s thanks responsive rise To Heaven!--such meed of praise she owes, Her flowing fields attest, of waving corn, Dispersed; thro’ length and breadth of her rich vales, In golden seasons, thrice prolific shed, O’er England’s happy isle! so prosperous blest. THE APPROACH. The sweet spring is coming, with bud and with flow’r, The snow-drop peeps forth from the ground; And the violet blue, from its odorous bow’r, Wide scatters its fragrance around. Lo! Winter, rude churl, has pass’d sullen away, Return’d to his dreary domain; And the wood-bird again resumes her sweet lay, While verdure enlivens the plain.