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BELMONT. C. M.
WHEN all thy mercies, O my God, When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost
With health renewed my face,
Unnumbered comforts to my soul
From whom those comforts flowed.
Ten thousand, thousand precious gifts
The green earth sends her incense up
And prayer is made, and praise is given The blue sky is the temple's arch,
Its transept earth and air,
So Nature keeps the reverent frame
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 1807-1892.