Eternal source of every joy, Well may thy praise our lips employ; While in thy temple we appear, Whose goodness crowns the circling year. The flow'ry spring at thy command Embalms the air, and paints the land: The summer rays with vigour shine To raise the corn and cheer the vine. Thy hand, in autumn, richly pours Through all our coasts redundant stores; And winters, soften'd by thy care No more a face of horror wear. Seasons, and months, and weeks, and days Demand successive songs of praise: Still be the cheerful homage paid With opening light, and evening shade.