76 THE BOOK OF ENSILAGE. 



No country is so well adapted by reason of both soil 

 and climate as our own for the growth of the corn-plant. 

 Now that we know how to utilize this greatest gift of 

 Nature, and save all its valuable constituents instead of a 

 part only, who is able to correctly estimate the blessings 

 which will follow when this knowledge is universally 

 diffused and profited by ? 



THE CORN-SONG. 



BY JOHN G. WHTTTIER. 



HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard ! heap high the golden corn ! 



No richer gift has Autumn poured from out her lavish horn. 



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. 



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, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, 



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, 



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 ! 



