Page:Poems (Barbauld).djvu/127

Rh Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her tore; Though the ick'ning flocks hould fall, And the herds deert the tall;

Should thine alter'd hand retrain The early and the latter rain; Blat each opening bud of joy. And the riing year detroy;

Yet to thee my oul hould raie Grateful vows, and olemn praie; And, when every bleing's flown, Love thee—for thy elf alone. HYMN