1 O ye sweet Nurses of soft Dreams,
Ye ready Brooks and winding Streams,
Or murm'ring o'er the Pebbles* sheen,
Or sliding thro' the Meadows gree;
Or where thro' matted Sedge you creep
Slow trav'ling to your parent Deep,
Resound his Praise by whom you rose
That Sea, which never Ebbs or flows.
2 Ye Trees, whose Roots descend as low
As high in Air your Branches grow,
That pour a venerable Shade
For Thought and friendly Converse made:
Your heavy Arms to Heaven extend,
And bend your Heads, in Homage bend:
Cedars and Pines that wave above,
Waving adore your parent Jove.
3 No Evil can from thee proceed,
'Tis only suffer'd, not decreed;
As Darkness is not from the Sun,
Nor mount the Shades till he is gone.
Even then the Pious on his guard
Stands undismay'd, for all prepar'd;
Whate'er befal, his Mind's at rest;
Since what thou send'st, must needs be best.
4 O Father King, whose heavenly Face
Shines still serene on all thy Race,
Can we foget thy guardian Care,
How slow to punish, glad to spare!
We thy Magnificence adore;
We thy unceasing Aid implore:
Nor vainly for thy Help we call,
Nor can we want; for thou art ALL.