The Reaper.
The reaper now plies his sturdy arm,
’Mid the heat of the noon-day sun;
And early and late in the sweat of his brow,
He works till his task be done.
The sun scarce peeps o’er the distant trees,
Ere he labours along the fields;
And the silvery beams of the harvest moon,
Shine sweet as the sheaves he builds.
’Mid cloud and dew of the early spring,
In good hope he buried the grain;
And soon in green blades with the soft summer breeze
It wavered along the plain.
The bright warm close of the golden year,
Made his ample reward complete;
As it swell’d out each grain and made ripe each ear,
And all for the sickle meet.
Happy art thou in thy fruitful work,
O reaper of rich teeming fields;
For the bright hope we sow in this mortal life,
Full often no harvest yields.
The blasts of sorrow, the clouds of care,
Disappointment’s terrible blight,
Destroy many sweet pleasures we hoped to rear,
And leave but winter and night.
Yet unto man in this vale of tears,
A holier hope is given;
If he scatter around him good seed on earth,
His harvest he’ll reap in heaven.