HYMNS.
323
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 altered 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.
