The corn, in golden light,
Waves o'er the plain;
The sickle's gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.
Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!
-Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o'er the day!
On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour,-
-We know its cause too well,
She is no more!
Her soft eye's blue,-
-Now o'er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!
