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It lifts to him its buds, and blossoms crude,
And loads the passing gale with gratitude.
Yet more than what I speak, to thee I owe,
And blessings, more than strains so weak can show.
Thy warning voice allur'd my erring youth,
To seek the path of piety and truth;
And heaven's first hopes, as early sun-beams roll,
Dawn'd from thy prayers upon my anxious soul.
Scorn not the muse who comes in rustic dress,
These thanks sincere and artless to express,
And breathe her wishes for thy happiness.
Around thy house may guardian angels bend,
Thy slumbers watch, thy wakeful hours defend;
And her whom gentle fate has led to twine
Her earthly hopes and destinies with thine,
And all who claim thy labour or thy care,
Thy daily study, and thy nightly prayer,
Still to thy hopes be true, and in thy blessings share.
Oh, ever free from doubt, and pain, and strife,
Flow on the current of thy tranquil life!
Pure as the dew-drop on the flow'ret's heads,
The youthful spring in rich profusion sheds;
Bright as the star whose crescent gilds the dawn,
And marks the foot-steps of the glowing morn;
Blest in those joys which hearts like thine may prove,
