Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, ALL ARE THINE. BY MARY HOWITT. 'Tis night! Oh now come forth to gaze Thou that created'st all! Thou fountain We bless Thee, Father, that we are! We bless Thee for our inward life; Which is the being of our being! We bless Thee for this bounteous earth; For its increase-for corn and wine; For forest-oaks, for mountain rills, For "cattle on a thousand hills;" We bless Thee-for all good is Thine! The earth is Thine, and it Thou keepest, The earth is Thine-the summer earth; The earth is thine-the teeming earth; The earth is thine-when days are dim, The earth is thine-thy creature, man! Creator! Father! all are thine! |