945

ANSELM. L. M.

L. H. HAYNE.

O

1 Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home;
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.

2 All the world is God's own field,
Fruit unto his praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown:
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take his harvest home:
From his field shall in that day
All offences purge away;
Give his angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast,
But the fruitful ears to store
In his garner evermore.

4 Even so, Lord, quickly come To thy final harvest home : Gather thou thy people in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

1 Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ!
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the joy which harvests bring,
Grateful praises now we sing.

2 Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain :
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse :
All that spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal autumn pours
From her overflowing stores :-

3 These, to that dear Source we owe,
Whence our sweetest comforts flow;
These, through all my happy days,
Claim my cheerful songs of praise,
Lord, to thee my soul should raise
Grateful, never-ending praise;
And when every blessing's flown,
Love thee for thyself alone.

A. L. BARBAULD.

948

AMERICA. 6s & 4s.

ENGLISH HYMN.

1 Lord, while for all mankind we pray, Of every clime and coast,

O hear us for our native land, |: The land we love the most! :|| 2 Our fathers' sepulchres are here,

And here our kindred dwell:

Our children, too; how should we love ||: Another's land so well? :||

3 O guard our shores from every foe,
With peace our borders bless;
With prosperous times our cities crown,
: Our fields with plenteousness. :||

4 Lord of the nations, thus to thee
Our country we commend;
Be thou our refuge and our trust,
||: Our everlasting friend. :||

951

J. R. WREFORD.

1 O Lord, our fathers oft have told,

In our attentive ears,

Thy wonders in their days performed, ||: Ánd in more ancient years. :||

2 'Twas not their courage, nor their sword, To them salvation gave;

'Twas not their number, nor their strength, ||: That did their country save ; :||

3 But thy right hand, thy powerful arm, Whose succor they implored; Thy providence protected them, ||: Who thy great name adored. :||

4 As thee their God our fathers owned, So thou art still our King;

O therefore, as thou didst to them,
||: To us deliverance bring. :||

952

TATE & BRADY.

1 Great King of nations, hear our prayer, While at thy feet we fall; And humbly with united cry, ||: To thee for mercy call. :||

2 When dangers, like a stormy sea, Beset our country round,

To thee we looked, to thee we cried, ||: And help in thee was found. :|| 3 With one consent we meekly bow Beneath thy chastening hand, And, pouring forth confession meet, ||: Mourn with our mourning land. :|| 4 With pitying eye behold our need, As thus we lift our prayer; Correct us with thy judgments, Lord, |: Then let thy mercy spare. :||

J. H. GURNEY.