The Treasury Of Sacred Song

Hither thou com'st: the busy wind all night

Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing

Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm

-- For which coarse man seems much the fitter born --

Rain'd on thy bed

And harmless head: --

And now as fresh and cheerful as the light

Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing

Unto that Providence, Whose unseen arm

Curb'd them, and clothed thee well and warm.

All things that be, praise Him; and had

Their lesson taught them when first made.

So hills and valleys into singing break;

And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue,

While active winds and streams both run and speak,

Yet stones are deep in admiratïon.

Thus praise and praÿer here beneath the sun

Make lesser mornings, when the great are done.