Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/406

322 Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain; Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse: All that Spring with bounteous hand Scatters o'er the smiling land: All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich overflowing stores: 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. Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear; Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit;