The Seasons.
1 Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ.
2 All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land,--
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing 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.
4 Lord, to thee my soul should raise
Grateful, never-ending praise,
And, when every blessing's flown,
Love thee for thyself alone.