The _patriotic lyrics_ and hymns of Watts have sounded, how in his day they throbbed, with that pulse of prayer for our country: Shine, mighty God! on Britain shine With beams of heavenly grace; Reveal Thy power through all our coasts, And show Thy smiling face. Amidst our isle, exalted high, Do Thou our glory stand; And, like a wall of guardian fire, Surround the favoured land. And when the Americans held their great “Thanksgiving Day,” Watts’ hymn, always sung to the venerable old tune of St. Martin’s, was, as Mrs. Stowe tells us, the national hymn of the Puritans.[22] Let children hear the mighty deeds Which God performed of old, Which in our younger years we saw, And which our fathers told. Our lips shall tell them to our sons, And they again to theirs, That generations yet unborn May teach them to their heirs. The extent to which the verses of Watts entered into all the incidents of the social life of the United States is well illustrated in the “Pearl of Orr’s Island:” in a very striking and pathetic manner the following stanzas often interlace the conversations of that charming story: Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home. Under the shadow of Thy throne Thy saints have dwelt secure: Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defence is sure. Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. Thy word commands our flesh to dust— “Return, ye sons of men;” All nations rose from earth at first, And turn to earth again. A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their lives and cares, Are carried downwards by the flood, And lost in following years. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. Like flowery fields the nations stand, Pleased with the morning light; The flowers beneath the mower’s hand Lie withering ere ’tis night. Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home. And we are reminded that this grand hymn, which we have heard sung in barns and meeting-houses, in kirks and cathedrals, also comes with tender pathos in one of the affecting scenes of Charlotte Brontë. What grand expressions of _personal faith_ abound among these verses, what a radiant casting back of the blunted arrows of doubt and unbelief!