420
All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls!
For You, in presence of this little Band
Gathered together on the green hill-side,
Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer
Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King;
Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have made
Your very poorest rich in peace of thought
And in good works; and Him, who is endowed
With scantiest knowledge, Master of all truth
Which the salvation of his soul requires.
Conscious of that abundant favour shower'd
On you, the Children of my humble care;—
On your Abodes, and this beloved Land,
Our birth-place, home, and Country, while on Earth
We sojourn,—loudly do I utter thanks
With earnest joy, that will not be suppressed.
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance;
These fertile fields, that recompence your pains;
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top;
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads,
Or hushed; the roaring waters, or the still:
They see the offering of my lifted hands—
