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The Autumn wind doth faintly wail; 
There is music borne on the gentle gale. 
As fairy bells their notes were pealing, 
Quick to the ear of fancy stealing. 
Hark! the flowers the breeze is swingmg. 
And Harvest-bells are sweetly ringing. 
Merry they ring, for the ripened corn 
Load after load hath been pass’d them borne ; 
Gathered with thanks—garnered in joy— 
No more can blight our hopes destroy; 
Joy that our often prayers are heard ! 
Praise for our daily bread, O Lord. 
Again the breeze the flowers hath shaken ; 
Its blasts a knell of sorrow waken; 
And, echoing their heavy breath, 
They moum the lovely Summer’s death; 
Or, prescient of their coming doom, 
They sigh at thought of Winter’s gloom. 
O ! Harvest-bells, I mourn with ye 
The speed with which ail bright things flee ! 
We love their sweetness, own their power, 
Yet lose them in one little hour.— 
Chain then no more to earthly clay 
Hearts which should own a higher sway! 
