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[165] Oh, favors every year made new!
     Oh, gifts with rain and sunshine sent!
The bounty overruns our due,
     The fulness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;
     We murmur, but the corn-ears fill,
We choose the shadow, but the sun
     That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soil
     The power to make it Eden-fair,
And richer fruits to crown our toil
     Than summer-wedded islands bear.

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
     Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
     Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
     Can change a rocky soil to gold,—
That brave and generous lives can warm
     A clime with northern ices cold.

And let these altars, wreathed with flowers
     And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
     The early and the latter rain!


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1859 AD (1)
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