Classic Poem

The harvests with abundance fill the land,
And call for gratitude and festive song;
And industry revives on every hand,
Which from war's wasteful scourge has suffered long.
And fell disease, that wasted day by day,
Is checked and staid, confined to narrow bound;
That else might thousands and ten thousands slay,
And desolate a fertile region round!
Our fathers' God! who, in their sore distress,
Did'st save from famine and from dangers dire,
And gav'st them shelter in the wilderness;
Our hearts with praise and gratitude inspire,
For all thy mercies to our fathers shown,
And for unnumbered blessings all our own.