546 | Laudo. 7s
(1223) Thanksgiving.
Praise to God! immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous Source of ev’ry joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ.
2 For the flocks that roam the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain,
Clouds that drop their fatt’ning dews,
Suns that temp’rate warmth diffuse;
3 All that spring with bounteous hand,
Scatters o’er the smiling land,
All that lib’ral autumn pours
From her rich o’erflowing stores;
4 Lord, for these our souls shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And when ev’ry blessing’s flown,
Love thee for thyself alone.
Mrs. Anna L. Barbauld, 1772.