HYMNS.
117
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her ſtore;
Though the ſick'ning flocks ſhould fall,
And the herds deſert the ſtall;
Should thine alter'd hand reſtrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blaſt each opening bud of joy.
And the riſing year deſtroy;
Yet to thee my ſoul ſhould raiſe
Grateful vows, and ſolemn praiſe;
And, when every bleſſing's flown,
Love thee—for thy ſelf alone.
HYMN
