—"Think'st thou I wander'd from my Scythian home
For glittering dust, or polish'd stones to roam?
I sought the gem of wisdom where it shines,
With gather'd brightness in the Grecian mines.
Happy, might I such sacred prize attain,
And reach in peace my lowly roof again,
And yet preserve in purity refin'd
The chrystal treasure of a virtuous mind."
HARVEST HYMN.
This is the season, God of Grace,
When man's full heart doth turn to Thee,
For now his eye can clearest trace
Thy hand on vale and field and tree.
With hope he casts to earth the grain,
When spring awakes the snow-drop cold,
With joy beholds bright Summer's rain
And genial sun the germ unfold;
Yet fear will oft his breast pervade
Even while he views the fertile soil
Lest storms destroy the tender blade
And crush the promise of his toil:
But when blest Autumn's care displays
His garners with their stores replete,
Then hope is lost in strains of praise,
And fear in gratulations sweet.
