‘Father and King,
While here thy quickening breezes round me play,
And yonder comes thy visible delegate
With his bright scutcheon, to diffuse again
All day the rays of thy beneficence
Over this lovely earth, thy six days’ work;
To Thee, Almighty One! thy child would raise
A loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strain
Of joy and thanks, and supplication, be
Or cold, or weak, or insincere in aught,