And I, the slave to wash thy feet!
Should all the streamlets cease to flow,
Not one on earth could e'er be so.
Our strength propels the busy mills,
And all the land with plenty fills,—
They bring, some silver—others gold—
And shield the poor from winter's cold.
The vapors, which from us ascend,
To vegetation are a friend;—
In dew they soon descend again,