The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

The corn-song.

Let other lands, exulting, glean
     The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
     The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift
     Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
     Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
     Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
     Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain
     Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
     The robber crows away.

[313] All through the long, bright days of June
     Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer's noon
     Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves,
     Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
     And bear the treasure home.

There, when the snows about us drift,
     And winter winds are cold,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
     And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk
     Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
     By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
     Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,
     And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
     Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
     Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
     Let mildew blight the rye, [314]
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
     The wheat-field to the fly:

But let the good old crop adorn
     The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for his golden corn,
     Send up our thanks to God!

1847.