By God's own fingers traced:
And bounteously his gifts
He has bestowed upon the growing land;
Her paths are teeming from his lib'ral Hand,
That knows no grudging thrifts.
Up looks the toiling hind,
And wipes his brow, and rests upon his spade;
The idle herdsman, in the hawthorn shade,
A-weary lies reclined.
The village church is seen,