116
HYMNS.
Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow ſheaves of ripen'd grain;
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning 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;
