’Tis He that taught the lark, from earth upspringing,
To warble forth his matin strain;
And the pure stream, in liquid gushes singing,
Gladly to bless the thirsty plain;
And from the laden bee, when homeward winging
Its tuneful flight doth not disdain,
To hear the song of praise.
There’s not a voice in Nature, but is telling
(If we will hear that voice aright,)
How much, when human hearts with love are swelling,