Oh, welcome to the corn-clad slope,
And to the laden tree,
Thou promised autumn - for the hope
Of nations turn'd to thee,
Through all the hours of splendour past,
With summer's bright career -
And we see thee on thy throne at last,
Crown'd monarch of the year!
Thou comest with gorgeous flowers
That make the roses dim,
With morning mists and sunny hours
And wild birds' harvest hymn;
Thou comest with the might of floods,
The glow of moonlit skies,
And the glory flung on fading woods
Of thousand mingled dyes!
But never seem'd thy steps so bright
On Europe's ancient shore,
Since faded from the poet's sight
That golden age of yore;
For early harvest-home hath pour'd
Its gladness on the earth,
And the joy that lights the princely board
Hath reach'd the peasant's hearth.
O Thou, whose silent bounty flows
To bless the sower's art,
With gifts that ever claim from us
The harvests of the heart -
If thus Thy goodness crown the year,
What shall the glory be,
When all Thy harvest, whitening here,
Is gather'd home to Thee!
