THIS day, two hundred years ago, 

The wild grape by the river's side, 

And tasteless ground-nut trailing low,

The table of the woods supplied. 

Unknown the apple's red and gold,

The blushing tint of peach and pear; 

The mirror of the Powwow told

No tale of orchards ripe and rare. 

Wild as the fruits he scorned to till,

These vales the idle Indian trod; 

Nor knew the glad creative skill,

The joy of him who toils with God. 

O Painter of the fruits and flowers!

We thank Thee for Thy wise design. 

Whereby these human hands of ours,

In Nature's garden work with Thine. 

And thanks that from our daily need

The joy of simple faith is born; 

That he who smites the summer weed.

May trust Thee for the autumn corn.

Give fools their gold and knaves their power,

Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall: 

Who sows a field or trains a flower

Or plants a tree is more than all. 

For he who blesses most is blest;

And God and man shall know his worth, 

Who toils to leave as his bequest

An added beauty to the earth. 

And, soon or late, to all that sow,

The time of harvest shall be given; 

The flower shall bloom, the fruit shall grow.

If not on earth, at least in Heaven!