ORIGINAL ODE, 



WKITIEN rOE THE 



aliasipiisaii m fit ism a^mtiiti^M stsisw. 



Now hang up the sickle, the reapers are done ! 

 The warm rains, the soft dews, and the sweet summer eun 

 Have cheerily Avrought with the brawny arms here, 

 And the Harvest-Moon smiles on the fruits of the year. 



Ho ! Freemen of Essex ! Stout sons of the soil ! 

 What meed to your labors, what rest to your toil. 

 While the tread of the traitor pollutes the wronged earth, 

 And Liberty faints in the land of her birth ? 



Runs the blood of your sires pale and weak in your veins ? 

 Will the ringing of gold drown the clanking of chains ? 

 Will you sit by your firesides and count up your store, 

 . While shame keeps with death, watch and ward at the door ? 



No ! a thousand times No ! thunder out on the air, 

 Here are strong arms to do — here are brave hearts to dare ! 

 The fair vales that thrilled under Putnam's young tread. 

 Give birth to no dastards — bring shame to no dead. 



