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Harvest Home.

DEAN H. ALFORD.

OME, ye thankful people, come, Raise a song of harvest home! All is safely gather'd in, Ere the winter-storms begin; God, our Maker, doth provide For our wants to be supplied; Come to God's own temple, come, Raise a song of Harvest-Home!

We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown;
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear;
Grant, O Harvest-Lord, that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

For the Lord our God shall come
And shall take His harvest home!
From His field shall purge away
All that doth offend, that day;
Give His angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast,
But the fruitful ears to store

In His garner evermore.

Then, thou Church triumphant, come, Raise the song of Harvest-Home!

All are safely gather'd in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

Harvest Hymn.

There for ever purified,

In God's garner to abide.

Come, ten thousand Angels, come,
Raise the glorious Harvest-Home!

Harvest Hymn.

MRS ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

ORAISE to God, immortal praise,

PRAIS

For the love that crowns our days! Bounteous source of every joy,

Let Thy praise our tongues employ.

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use:

Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews;
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse:

All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores :

These to Thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

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Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;

Though the sickening flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall;

Should Thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;

Yet to Thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And, when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee for Thyself alone!

S

Sunny Days in Winter.

D. F. MACARTHY.

UMMER is a glorious season,

Warm, and bright, and pleasant;

But the past is not a reason

To despise the present!

So, while health can climb the mountain, And the log lights up the hall,

There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Sunny Days in Winter.

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,
Maiden-like in charms;

Summer, too, with all her promise,

Perish'd in our arms:

But the memory of the vanish'd

Whom our hearts recall,

Maketh sunny days in winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh—

All the best are dead;

But the wall-flower still perfumeth

Yonder garden bed;

And the arbutus, pearl-blossom'd,

Hangs its coral ball:

There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty-very,

And I love them well;

But this holly's glistening berry

None of those excel.

While the fir can warm the landscape,

And the ivy clothes the wall,

There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season

Wait the innocent ;

Those who taste with love and reason

What their God has sent;

Those who neither soar too highly,

Nor too lowly fall,

Feel the sunny days of winter, after all!

Then, although our darling treasures
Vanish from the heart;

Then, although our once-loved pleasures
One by one depart;

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Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall,

There is sunshine, and no winter, after all !

L

Lord of the Harvest.

REV. JOHN HAMPDEN GURNEY.

ORD of the harvest! Thee we hail ;

Thine ancient promise doth not fail ; The varying seasons haste their round, With goodness all our years are crown'd: Our thanks we pay

This holy day;

Oh let our hearts in tune be found!

If Spring doth wake the song of mirth,
If Summer warms the fruitful earth;
When Winter sweeps the naked plain,
Or Autumn yields its ripen'd grain;
Still do we sing

To Thee, our King;

Through all their changes Thou dost reign.

But chiefly when Thy liberal hand
Scatters new plenty o'er the land,
When sounds of music fill the air,
As homeward all their treasures bear;
We too will raise

Our hymn of praise,

For we Thy common bounties share.

Lord of the harvest! all is Thine!

The rains that fall, the suns that shine,