For this long-favour'd land; That now, as in the days gone by, May she her holy lot fulfil, Earth's sanctuary to be; And stand amid the nations still, A witness true to Thee. And when the last dread trumpet's sound Upon her ear shall ring, Grant that her children may be found Prepared to meet their King! 141. HARVEST. PRAISE to God, immortal praise For the love that crowns our days; Bounteous source of every joy, Let Thy praise our tongues employ: All to Thee, our God, we owe, Source whence all our blessings flow. All the blessings of the fields, Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Peace, prosperity, and health, Pure religion's holier beams: Lord, for these our souls shall raise |