 | The harp and plow |  |
43
THE HYMN.
Father of all! to Thee we raise
The feeble tribute of our praise;
O, turn to us a willing ear,
And in Thy glorious heaven hear!
The feeble tribute of our praise;
O, turn to us a willing ear,
And in Thy glorious heaven hear!
The ‘times and seasons,’ in Thine hand,
With plenteous gladness fill the land;
And rolling years, as fast they move,
Proclaim Thy goodness, power, and love.
With plenteous gladness fill the land;
And rolling years, as fast they move,
Proclaim Thy goodness, power, and love.
The blades of spring, the leaves of June,
The fostering sun, and ripening moon,
The searing frost, the mantling snow,
Thy wondrous skill and wisdom show.
The fostering sun, and ripening moon,
The searing frost, the mantling snow,
Thy wondrous skill and wisdom show.
Now, in the garner of the year,
Our hearts are warmed with bounteous cheer;
And here, beside our festal board,
Be Thou, the Giver good, adored.
Our hearts are warmed with bounteous cheer;
And here, beside our festal board,
Be Thou, the Giver good, adored.
We thank Thee for a home, and friends,
For light and life Thy mercy lends;
For rulers from oppression free;
For this, the land of Liberty!
For light and life Thy mercy lends;
For rulers from oppression free;
For this, the land of Liberty!
Thou wert our fathers' God, and Thou
The only one to whom we bow;
Thus, to our children ever be,
The same, and they the same to Thee.
The only one to whom we bow;
Thus, to our children ever be,
The same, and they the same to Thee.
44
O, may New-England ever share
Thy smiling love, Thy guardian care!
Be Thou her guard, Eternal One,
While mountains stand, and rivers run.
Thy smiling love, Thy guardian care!
Be Thou her guard, Eternal One,
While mountains stand, and rivers run.
The moon goes down; the fire burns low;
The ancient clock seems ticking slow,
And feebly, with its drowsy powers,
Is hammering out the morning hours.
The grandsire, with complacent look,
Bids some one hand the blessed Book.
Its precious page aloud he reads,
Then, kneeling, in devotion leads;
Gives thanks that in communion sweet
They've been permitted thus to meet;
And in befitting language prays,
That when on earth shall end their days,
To them may their Thanksgiving prove
Eternal, in the realms above.
The ancient clock seems ticking slow,
And feebly, with its drowsy powers,
Is hammering out the morning hours.
The grandsire, with complacent look,
Bids some one hand the blessed Book.
Its precious page aloud he reads,
Then, kneeling, in devotion leads;
Gives thanks that in communion sweet
They've been permitted thus to meet;
And in befitting language prays,
That when on earth shall end their days,
To them may their Thanksgiving prove
Eternal, in the realms above.
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