Anna Letitia 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 ripened 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 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.