All things, save Man, this Summer morn rejoice: Sweet smiles the sky, so fair a world to view; Unto the earth below the flowers give voice; Even the wayside-weed of homeliest hue Looks up erect amid the golden blue, And thus it speaketh to the thinking mind:-- “O’erlook me not! I for a purpose grew, Though long mayest thou that purpose try to find, On us one sunshine falls! God only is not blind!” England, my country!--land that gave me birth! Where those I love, living or dead, still dwell, Most sacred spot--to me--of all the earth; England! “with all thy faults I love thee well.” With what delight I hear thy Sabbath bell Fling to the sky its ancient English sound, As if to the wide world it dared to tell We own a God, who guards this envied ground, Bulwarked with martyrs’ bones--where Fear was never found. Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray, With this bright sky, this lovely scene in view, And worship Him who guardeth us alway!-- Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue, Who spake, and from these plains huge cities grew; Who made thee, mighty England! what thou art, And asked but gratitude for all His due. The Giver, God! claims but the beggar’s part, And only doth require “a humble, contrite heart.” London: Printed by Samuel Bentley, Bangor House, Shoe Lane.