855. 7s. M. Barbauld.
The Seasons.
1Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ.
2All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land,--
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores,--
3These to that dear Source we owe
Whence our sweetest comforts flow;
These, through all my happy days,
Claim my cheerful songs of praise.
4Lord, to thee my soul should raise
Grateful, never-ending praise,
And, when every blessing's flown,
Love thee for thyself alone.