The Harvest

Oh, 'tis sweet, when fields are ringing
  With the merry cricket's singing,
  Oft to mark with curious eye
  If the vine-tree's time be nigh:
  Here is now the fruit whose birth
  Cost a throe to Mother Earth.
  Sweet it is, too, to be telling,
  How the luscious figs are swelling;
  Then to riot without measure
  In the rich, nectareous treasure,
  While our grateful voices chime,--
  Happy season! blessed time.