English

Almighty Father! at Thy Throne
A grateful people kneel.
Father of Mercies, Thou alone
Canst compass what we feel.

We thank Thee for the pleasant land
In which our lots are cast;
The guidance of Thy eydant hand
Through all its perils past.

We thank Thee for the forms that guard
The liberties we prize,
For every cherish'd old Church-yard,
Where rest the good and wise.

We thank Thee for the Altars free.
The Courts without a stain —
The glowing page of History,

Pursued across the waning year,
By winds that chase with lifted spear,
A leaf, blood-stained, fell spent at last
Upon my bosom, poor Outcast!

Pursued across the waning year,
By winds that chase with lifted spear,
A leaf, blood-stained, fell spent at last
Upon my bosom, poor Outcast!

In joy and gladness on ye go
My country's pleasant streams;
And oft through scenes as fair ye flow
As bless the Poet's dreams.
From hills, where stately forests rear
Their heads the breeze to brave —
From dark morass, or fountain clear,
You roll to ocean's wave.

The noble Lakes your strength supply,
And now the crystal spring,
Where undisturb'd the wild birds fly,

When love and the fireside inspired,
Words dropped from his eloquent lips
Like music from the golden lyre
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips.

When love and the fireside inspired,
Words dropped from his eloquent lips
Like music from the golden lyre
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips.

Tired at length of crying,
Laughing, cooing, sighing,
The baby lies so qui't and still,
Scarce breathing in his sleep;
The mother watches, half-inclined
To hide her face and weep.

Tired at length of crying,
Laughing, cooing, sighing,
The baby lies so qui't and still,
Scarce breathing in his sleep;
The mother watches, half-inclined
To hide her face and weep.

I wander by the shore of life,
Enchanted by the voices from the sea;
Forever trying — like a child —
In vain, to understand its mystery.

I wander by the shore of life,
Enchanted by the voices from the sea;
Forever trying — like a child —
In vain, to understand its mystery.

Room for the Dead! your living hands may pile
Treasures of Art the stately tents within;
Beauty may grace them with her richest smile,
And Genius there spontaneous plaudits win.
But yet, amidst the tumult and the din
Of gathering thousands, let me audience crave: —
Place claim I for the Dead — 'twere mortal sin
When banners o'er our Country's treasures wave,
Unmark'd to leave the wealth safe garner'd in the Grave.

The Fields may furnish forth their lowing kine,
The Forest spoils in rich abundance lie,

The sky bends over in a sweet
Forgiveness; earth is filled with light;
And mellow autumn hues, soft winds
That croon of summer lands; and thro'
The brooding stillness comes a strain
Of music, and, as leaves are swept
Upon the river's tide away,
My thoughts drift off and on to God.

The sky bends over in a sweet
Forgiveness; earth is filled with light;
And mellow autumn hues, soft winds
That croon of summer lands; and thro'
The brooding stillness comes a strain
Of music, and, as leaves are swept

All hail to the day when the Britons came over,
And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet,
Around and above us their spirits will hover,
Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet.

Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving,
The Rose of Old England the roadside perfumes;
The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving,
Securely the Mayflower blushes and blooms.

Chorus .

Forbear, God of Love , torment me no more!
Enough I've endur'd, give your Tyranny o'er!
Still must my fond Heart be for ever the Prize
Of Cloi 's, or Daphne 's, or Phillis's Eyes?

Must every Beauty , and every Grace
For me have a Charm? must you haunt ev'ry Place?
In Country , in Town ; in the Park , at the Play
You lead, mighty Power , my Fancy astray.

Of all the deep Wounds you e'er gave me before,
None deeper than this, since I Phaebe adore: