1

FOUNTAIN of mercy! God of love!

How rich Thy bounties are! The rolling seasons, as they move, Proclaim Thy constant care.

2 When in the bosom of the earth The sower hid the grain,

Thy goodness mark'd its secret birth,
And sent the early rain.

3 The spring's sweet influence was Thine,
The plants in beauty grew;
Thou gav'st refulgent suns to shine,
And mild refreshing dew.

4 These various mercies from above,
Matur'd the swelling grain;

A yellow harvest crowns Thy love,
And plenty fills the plain.

5 Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone
Thou dost on man bestow;
Let him not then forget to own
From whom His blessings flow!

6 Fountain of love! our praise is Thine; To Thee our songs we'll raise,

And all created Nature join
In sweet harmonious praise!

Alice Flowerdew, 1811.

1

LORD, in Thy Name Thy servants plead,

And

sworn to hear; Thine is the harvest, Thine the seed, The fresh and fading year.

2 Our hope, when autumn winds blew wild, We trusted, Lord, with Thee;

And now, that spring has on us smiled We wait on Thy decree.

3 The former and the latter rain, The summer sun and air,

The green ear, and the golden grain, All Thine, are ours by prayer.

4 Thine too by right, and ours by grace, The wondrous growth unseen,

The hopes that soothe, the fears that brace,

The love that shines serene!

5 Sogrant the precious things brought forth By sun and moon below,

That Thee, in Thy new heaven and earth,
We never may forego!

6 To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
The God whom we adore,
Be glory, as it was, is now,
And shall be evermore!

Amen! John Keble, 1857.

1

PRAISE to God, immortal praise,

For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ.

2 For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use:

3 Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews;
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse:

4 All that Spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o'er the smiling land,
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores:

5 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.

6 Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

7 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;

8 Should Thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising ear destroy;

Anna Lætitia Barbauld, 1773.