NOT the raven's glossy wing

Is so beautiful a thing

As thy locks of jet-black hair,

Maiden, all so bright and fair!

And a soul of beauty lies

In the midnight of thine eyes;

And a sweet, expressive grace

Sitteth meekly on thy face,

Like unto a statue seen

Of some gentle, loving queen!

Whatsoe'er thy name or station,

Thine, sweet maid, 's a blest vocation;

'Neath the dome that God hath spread

All above and round thy head;

Taking in the healthful breeze

From the mountain-tops and trees;

Thou dost toil from day to day,

Knowing that "to work's to pray!"

Conscious of reward well won

At the setting of the sun.

From thy thought-revealing brow

Strength of intellect hast thou;

In the harvest-fields of Thought

Mighty minds of old have wrought;

Thou hast followed in their way,

Gleaning richly day by day:

Gems of purest ray serene

In the intervals between

Constant toil and needful rest,

Thou hast garnered in thy breast.

In the brighter fields above,

'Neath the beaming eye of Love,

While the heavenly reapers stand,

Each with sickle in his hand,

Thou shalt take thy final rest

On the Master's kindly breast;

Ever, evermore to be

Blest throughout eternity;

Never, nevermore to roam

From thy gladsome Harvest Home!