Matron fair, ripe, rich and glowing,
Full thy stores, thy vintage flowing;
Golden sunflowers, dahlias blowing,
Deck thy festal board.
With ruddy fruit the boughs are bending,
Heaven and earth in blessing blending;
Nature sings, her song ascending
To her bounteous Lord.
Flora weeps her waning flowers,
While Pomona lavish showers
Her wealth: the field and garden dowers
With fruitage fresh and fair.
Richly crowned with golden sheaves,
Ere October tints the leaves,
Thy full hand each want relieves
Of penury and care.
Scotia's vine-the bramble twining-
Copse-wood bank, and hedge-row lining,
See the jetty clusters shining,
Children, come and gather!
Richer fruits and fairer flowers
Gem the southern fields and bowers;
Dearer to this heart of ours,
Bramble, fern, and heather.
Hark! oh hark these dropping shots,
The heath is foul with crimson clots,
The sportsman o'er his victim gloats,
And coolly calls it sport.
Alas! ye sinless, hapless things,
Your blood-stained breasts and broken wings,
My heart with deepest pity wrings,
Slain in each wild resort.
Softly radiant, deeply blue,
Flecked with clouds of snowy hue,
Soft enchantment gilds the view
While I skyward gaze.
Bark of light that sail'st at even
Through the azure depths of heaven,
Dear the boon to Autumn given,
Thy nightly full-orb'd rays.
The woods are still, the warbler's throat
Pours no more the wooing note,
The lark, on mounting wing afloat,
Hath ceased his matin lays:
A softly sweet ethereal calm
Sheds around its soothing balm;
My heart indites a silent psalm
Of joyous, grateful praise.