Oh, may we ne'er by Famine dread
Be taught these annual gifts to prize,
But be to grateful duty led
By all the bounty of the skies.
"THE DEAD PRAISE NOT THE LORD."
David.
Deep dwellers in those cells profound
Where dreamless slumbers reign,
No lingering sigh, nor grateful sound
Bursts from your drear domain.
But ye, upon whose unseal'd eye
Creation's glory breaks,
When Morning opes the purple sky,
Or Eve her sceptre takes,
Ye to whose ear a thrilling strain
Of harmony doth rise,
From warbling grove and wind-swept main
While Echo's voice replies,
Whose buoyant footsteps wander o'er
Gay Summer's blooming fields,
Whose free hands pluck the golden store
That lavish Autumn yields,
Oh! praise the Author of your breath,
The Giver of your joy,
Until the icy hand of death
Time's fragile harp destroy—
