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PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days:
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ;

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;

Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening

Suns that temperate warmth diffuse;

All that Spring with bounteous hand

Scatters o'er the smiling land:
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores:

These to thee, my God, we owe; Source whence all our blessings flow;

And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

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My days were strewed with flowers and happiness:

There was no month but May: But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,

And made a party unawares for woe.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took

The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingering book,

And wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in a world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet lest perchance I should too hapPy be

In my unhappiness, Turning my purge to food, Thou throwest me

Into more sicknesses.

Thus does Thy power cross-bias me, not making

Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here; what Thou wilt do with me,

None of my books will show: I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree; For sure then I should grow To fruit, or shade; at least some bird would trust

Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet though Thou troublest me, I must be meek;

In weakness must be stout. Well, I will change the service, and go seek

Some other master out. Ah, my dear God! though I am clean forgot,

Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not.

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Thy golden censers filled with odors


Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.



THE night is come like to the

Depart not thou, great God, away,
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep still in my horizon; for to me
The sun makes not the day, but

Thou, whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep;
Guard me 'gainst those watchful

Whose eyes are open while mine close.

Let no dreams my head infest
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance,
Make my sleep a holy trance,
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought,
And with as active vigor run
My course, as doth the nimble sun,
Sleep is a death; O make me try
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at least with thee;
And thus assured, behold I lie
Secure, or to awake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again; –
O come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake forever.



LORD, when I quit this earthly stage, Where shall I fly but to thy breast? For I have sought no other home, For I have learned no other rest.

I cannot live contented here, Without some glimpses of thy face; And heaven without thy presence there

Would be a dark and tiresome place.

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