Anna Lætitia Barbauld (1743–1825)

PRAISE to God, immortal praise,

For the love that crowns our days!

Bounteous source of every joy,

Let Thy praise our tongues employ;

For the blessings of the field,

For the stores the gardens yield;

For the vine’s exalted juice,

For the generous olive’s use:

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’er-flowing 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.