NIGH the old Barn one autumn noon I stood Huge ribs of oak its moss-grown roof upheld, Shap'd in rude fashion by the axe that fell'd That giant timber from the neighbouring wood. From waggons tost, ripe sheaves the floor bestrew'd, Loud mirth and laughter weariness dispell'd; "Home, harvest home!" the rustic chorus swell'd, And mingling voices still the strain renew'd. That barn now stands a village school, within Christ's little ones are welcom'd, there to learn How blest they live who to His guidance cling. Among this wheat no tares may Satan win. By angels gather'd to their Father's barn, This harvest home may seraph voices sing! |