Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/269

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Oh, may we ne'er by Famine dread Be taught these annual gifts to prize, But be to grateful duty led By all the bounty of the skies.

 

dwellers in those cells profound Where dreamless slumbers reign, No lingering sigh, nor grateful sound Bursts from your drear domain.

But ye, upon whose unseal'd eye Creation's glory breaks, When Morning opes the purple sky, Or Eve her sceptre takes,

Ye to whose ear a thrilling strain Of harmony doth rise, From warbling grove and wind-swept main While Echo's voice replies,

Whose buoyant footsteps wander o'er    Gay Summer's blooming fields, Whose free hands pluck the golden store That lavish Autumn yields,

Oh! praise the Author of your breath, The Giver of your joy, Until the icy hand of death Time's fragile harp destroy— 