Let thy praise our tongues employ.
2 For the flocks that roam the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain,
Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews,
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse;
3 All that spring with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land,
All that lib'ral autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores;
4 Lord, for these our souls shall raise