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For an Autumn Festival.

the Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine
     Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more;
The woven wreaths of oak and pine
     Are dust along the Isthmian shore.

But beauty hath its homage still,
     And nature holds us still in debt;
And woman's grace and household skill,
     And manhood's toil, are honored yet.

And we, to-day, amidst our flowers
     And fruits, have come to own again
The blessings of the summer hours,
     The early and the latter rain;

To see our Father's hand once more
     Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o'er
     With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!

Once more the liberal year laughs out
     O'er richer stores than gems or gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
     Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,
     Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,
     Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

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Ruth (1)
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