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Let rich and poor, on whom are now
Such bounteous crops bestow'd,
Raise many a pure and holy vow
Of gratitude to God!

And while his gracious name we praise
For bread so kindly given;
Let us beseech him all our days,
To give the bread of heaven.

In that blest prayer our Lord did frame,
Of all our prayers the guide,
We ask that "Hallow'd be his name,"
And then our wants supplied.

For grace he bids us first implore,
Next, that we may be fed;

We say, "Thy will be done," before
We ask "our daily bread."

INSCRIPTION

IN A BEAUTIFUL RETREAT, CALLED FAIRY BOWER.

AIRY spirits, you who love
Cooling bow'r, or shady grove;
Streams that murmur as they flow,
Zephyrs bland that softly blow:

Babbling echo, or the tale
Of the love-lorn nightingale ;
Hither, airy spirits, come,
This is your peculiar home.

If you love a verdant glade,
If you love a noontide shade,
Hither sylphs and fairies fly,
Unobserv'd of earthly eye.

Come, and wander ev'ry night,
By the moonbeam's glimm'ring light ;
And again at early day

Brush the silver dews away.

Mark where first the daisies blow,
Where the bluest violets grow;
Where the sweetest linnet sings,
Where the earliest cowslip springs.

Where the largest acorn lies,
Precious in a fairy's eyes:
Sylphs, though unconfin'd to place,
Love to fill an acorn's
space.

Come, and mark within what bush
Builds the blackbird or the thrush ;
Great his joy who first espies,
Greater his who spares the prize!

Come, and watch the hallow'd bow'r,
Chase the insect from the flow'r;
Little offices like these,

Gentle souls and fairies please.

Mortals! form'd of grosser clay,
From our haunts keep far away;
Or, if you should dare appear,
See that you from vice are clear.

Folly's minion, fashion's fool,
Mad ambition's restless tool!
Slave of passion, slave of pow'r,
Fly, ah, fly! this tranquil bow'r!

Son of av❜rice, soul of frost,

Wretch of heav'n abhorr'd the most,

Learn to pity others' wants,

Or avoid these hallow'd haunts.

Eye unconscious of a tear,
When affliction's train appear:
Heart that never heav'd a sigh
For another, come not nigh.

But ye darling sons of heav'n,
Giving freely what was giv'n:
You, whose lib'ral hands dispense
The blessings of benevolence:

You, who wipe the tearful eye,
You, who stop the rising sigh;
You, whose souls have understood
The luxury of doing good.

Come, ye happy virtuous few,
Open is my bow'r to you;

You, these mossy banks may press;
You, each guardian Fay shall bless.

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