The toppling load, and when ’tis finished, sits
On its sere top, crowned with the ripened grain—
The Autumn’s King! And as the reaper’s hale
And rosy children shout for joy, he sings,
With mellow voice, the song of Harvest Home.
The sickle gleams no more amid the fields;
The cradled hills are open to the feet
Of Want’s poor gleaners and the hunter band;
And there the quail walks with her piping brood
Amid the stubble, teaching them to fly.