Thy hand in autumn richly pours Seasons and months and weeks and days Oh! may our more harmonious tongues F CCLXVIII `OUNTAIN of mercy! God of love! When in the bosom of the earth Thy goodness marked its secret birth, The spring's sweet influence was Thine, These various mercies from above A yellow harvest crowns Thy love, Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone Let him not then forget to own Fountain of love! our praise is Thine; In sweet harmonious praise! Anne Flowerdew. 1811 CCLXIX LORD, in Thy Name Thy servants plead, And Thou hast sworn to hear; Thine is the harvest, Thine the seed, The fresh and fading year.. Our hope, when autumn winds blew wild, And, now that spring has on us smiled, The former and the latter rain, The summer sun and air, The green ear, and the golden grain, Thine too by right, and ours by grace, The hopes that soothe, the fears that brace, So grant the precious things brought forth That Thee, in Thy new heaven and earth, To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, The God whom we adore, Be glory, as it was, is now, And shall be evermore ! Amen! John Keble. 1857 CCLXX RAISE, O praise our God and King, PR Hymns of adoration sing, For His mercies still endure, Ever faithful, ever sure. Praise Him that He made the sun For His mercies still endure, And the silver moon by night, Praise Him that He gave the rain And hath bid the fruitful field Praise Him for our harvest-store; And for richer food than this, For His mercies still endure, Glory to our bounteous King! Glory let Creation sing! Glory to the Father, Son, And blest Spirit, Three in One! Sir Henry Baker 1861 CCLXXI PRAIS RAISE to God, immortal praise, For the blessings of the field, Flocks that whiten all the plain; All that Spring with bounteous hand These to Thee, my God, we owe, Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear Should the vine put forth no more, Though the sickening flocks should fall, Should Thine altered hand restrain Yet to Thee my soul should raise Anna Lætitia Barbauld. [1825] L CCLXXII ORD of the harvest! Thee we hail ; Thine ancient promise doth not fail ; The varying seasons haste their round, This holy day; O let our hearts in tune be found! If Spring doth wake the song of mirth; |