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Still let us, for his gold - en corn, Send up our thanks to God!

To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our har - vest-fields with snow,

And frighten'd from our sprouting grain The rob - ber crows a - way.

We pluck a - way the frost-ed leaves, And bear the treas - ure home,

Who will not thank the kind - ly earth, And bless our farm - er girls!

THE RAVEN.

Edgar Allen Poe.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak

and weary. Over many quaint and curious volumes of for- got - en lore;

While I nodded, nearly napping suddenly there came

a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping

at my cham-ber door;

"Tis some visitor," I

muttered, "tapping

at my chamber door: Only this and noth-ing more."