Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/446

420 All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls!

For You, in presence of this little Band

Gathered together on the green hill-side,

Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer

Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King;

Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have made

Your very poorest rich in peace of thought

And in good works; and Him, who is endowed

With scantiest knowledge, Master of all truth

Which the salvation of his soul requires.

Conscious of that abundant favour shower'd

On you, the Children of my humble care;—

On your Abodes, and this beloved Land,

Our birth-place, home, and Country, while on Earth

We sojourn,—loudly do I utter thanks

With earnest joy, that will not be suppressed.

These barren rocks, your stern inheritance;

These fertile fields, that recompence your pains;

The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top;

Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads,

Or hushed; the roaring waters, or the still:

They see the offering of my lifted hands—