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AN AUTUMN PSALM FOR 1860.
“He that goeth forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless
come again rejoicing, bring his sheaves with him.”
- NO shadow o’er the silver sea,
- That as in slumber heaves,
- No cloud on the September sky,
- No blight on any leaves,
- As the reaper comes rejoicing,
- Bringing in his sheaves.
- Long, long and late the spring delayed,
- And summer, dank with rain,
- Hung trembling o’er her sunless fruit,
- And her unripened grain;
- And, like a weary, hopeless life,
- Sobbed herself out in pain.
- So the year laid her child to sleep,
- Her beauty half expressed;
- Then slowly, slowly cleared the skies,
- And smoothed the seas to rest,
- And raised the fields of yellowing corn
- O’er Summer’s buried breast;
- Till Autumn counterfeited Spring,
- With such a flush of flowers,
- His fiery‐tinctured garlands more
- Than mocked the April bowers,
- And airs as sweet as airs of June
- Brought on the twilight hours.
- O holy twilight, tender, calm!
- O star above the sea!
- O golden harvest, gathered in
- With late solemnity,
- And thankful joy for gifts nigh lost
- Which yet so plenteous be;—
- Although the rain‐cloud wraps the hill,
- And sudden swoop the leaves,
- And the year nears his sacred end,
- No eye weeps—no heart grieves:
- For the reaper came rejoicing,
- Bringing in his sheaves.
