Her tithe to claim from man’s productive toil,
And barn-yard fowls their rich thanksgivings spend,
Nor dream of days of want in time to come,
When winter o’er the frozen earth shall claim
Her sovereignty with cutting blast and snow.
Autumn departs, and soon on hills of brown,
In storms will break the dark solstitial morn.
The grove has lost its verdure and its song,
And withered leaves, in heaps, are mouldering round.
Keen northern blasts, from Greenland’s gelid wastes,