Haliburton.    

	And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
	Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

Spenser.    

	To glean the broken ears after the man
	That the main harvest reaps.

Shakespeare.    

	Our rural ancestors, with little blest,
	Patient of labor when the end was rest,
	Indulg’d the day that hous’d their annual grain,
	With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain.

Pope.    

	Fancy with prophetic glance
	Sees the teeming months advance;
	The field, the forest, green and gay;
	The dappled slope, the tedded hay;
	Sees the reddening orchard blow,
	The harvest wave, the vintage flow.

Warton.    

	Think, oh, grateful, think!
	How good the God of Harvest is to you;
	Who pours abundance o’er your flowing fields.

Thomson.    

Lowell.    

	The feast is such as earth, the general mother,
	Pours from her fairest bosom, when she smiles,
	In the embrace of autumn.

Shelley.    

	For now, the corn house filled, the harvest home,
	Th’ invited neighbors to the husking come;
	A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play
	Unite their charms to cheer the hours away.

Joel Barlow.    

	The harvest treasures all
	Now gather’d in, beyond the rage of storms,
	Sure to the swain; the circling fence shut up;
	And instant winter’s utmost rage defy’d.
	While loose to festive joy, the country round
	Laughs with the loud sincerity of mirth,
	Shook to the wind their cares.

Thomson.    

	Glowing scene!
	Nature’s long holiday! luxuriant—rich,
	In her proud progeny, she smiling marks
	Their graces, now mature, and wonder fraught!
	Hail! season exquisite!—and hail ye sons
	Of rural toil!—ye blooming daughters! ye
	Who, in the lap of hardy labor rear’d,
	Enjoy the mind unspotted.

Mary Robinson.