HARVEST SONG by ELIZA COOK

I love, I love to see
Bright steel gleam through the land;
'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be
In the reaper's tawny hand.

The helmet and the spear
Are twined with laurel wreath;
But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear,
And blood-spots rest beneath.

I love to see the field
That is moist with purple stain;
But not where bullet, sword and shield,
Lie strown with the gory slain.

No, no; 'tis when the sun
Shoots down his cloudless beams,
Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run
On the vineyard earth in streams.

My glowing heart beats high
At the sight of shining gold;
But it is not that which the miser's eye
Delighteth to behold.

A brighter wealth by far
Than the deep mine's yellow vein,
Is seen around, in the fair hills crowned
With sheaves of burnished grain.

Look forth, ye toiling men;
Though little ye possess,
Be glad that dearth is not on earth,
To leave that little less.

Let the song of praise be poured,
In gratitude and joy,
By the rich man, with his garners stored,
And the ragged gleaner boy.

The feast that warfare gives
Is not for one alone --
'Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives,
And the tenant of a throne.

Then glory to the steel
That shines in the reaper's hand;
And thanks God, who has blessed the sod,
And crowns the harvest land!

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