Page:Poems (Barbauld).djvu/126

116 Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow heaves of ripen'd grain; Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffue:

All that Spring with bounteous hand Scatters o'er the miling land: All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing tores:

Thee to thee, my God, we owe; Source whence all our bleings flow; And for thee, my oul hall raie Grateful vows and olemn praie.

Yet hould riing whirlwinds tear From its tem the ripening ear; Should the fig-tree's blated hoot Drop her green untimely fruit;