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 dews,
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.
Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear,
Should the fig tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit-
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store,
Though the sickening flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall-
Should thine altered hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy-
Yet to Thee my should should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise,
And, when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee- for Thyself alone.
-Anna Barbauld
