God of the Harvest! Thou, whose sun Has ripened all the golden grain, We bless Thee for Thy bounteous store, The cup of Plenty running o'er,
The sunshine and the rain. The year laughs out for very joy, Its silver treble echoing Like a sweet anthem through the woods,
Till mellowed by the solitudes It folds its glossy wing. But our united voices blend From day to day unweariedly;
Sure as the sun rolls up the morn, Or twilight from the eve is born, Our song ascends to Thee. Where'er the various-tinted woods,
In all their autumn splendour dressed, Impart their gold and purple dyes To distant hills and farthest skies Along the crimson west:
Across the smooth, extended plain, By rushing stream and broad lagoon, On shady height and sunny dale, Wherever scuds the balmy gale,
Or gleams the autumn moon: From inland seas of yellow grain, Where cheerful Labour, heaven-blest, With willing hands and keen-edged scythe,
And accents musically blythe, Reveals its lordly crest: From clover-fields and meadows wide, Where moves the richly-laden wain
To barns well-stored with new-made hay, Or where the flail at early day Rolls out the ripened grain: From meads and pastures on the hills,
And in the mountain valleys deep, Alive with beeves and sweet-breathed kine Of famous Ayr or Devon's line, And shepherd-guarded sheep:
The spirits of the golden year, From crystal caves and grottoes dim, From forest depths and mossy sward, Myriad-tongued, with one accord
Peal forth their harvest hymn.
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