Thanksgiving. (1223) Praise to God! immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days; Bounteous Source of ev'ry joy, 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 Grateful vows and solemn praise; And when ev'ry blessing's flown, Love thee for thyself alone. Mrs. Anna L. Barbauld, 1772.
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