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The Book of Praise.
Flocks that whiten all the plain ; Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain; Clouds that drop their fattening dews ; Suns that temperate warmth diffuse :
All that Spring with bounteous hand Scatters o'er the smiling land ; All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing stores :
These to Thee, my God, we owe, Source whence all our blessings flow; And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise.
Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear ; Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit;
Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her store ; Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall;
Should Thine alter'd hand restrain The early and the latter rain ; Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy;
Yet to Thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise ; And, when every blessing's flown, Love Thee for Thyself alone !
Anna Lcetitia Barbanld. 1773. |
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