O ye sweet Nurses of soft Dreams,
Ye ready Brooks and winding Streams,
Or murm’ring o’er the Pebbles* sheen,
Or sliding thro’ the Meadows gree;
Or where thro’ matted Sedge you creep
Slow trav’ling to your parent Deep,
Resound his Praise by whom you rose
That Sea, which never Ebbs or flows.

Ye Trees, whose Roots descend as low
As high in Air your Branches grow,
That pour a venerable Shade
For Thought and friendly Converse made:
Your heavy Arms to Heaven extend,
And bend your Heads, in Homage bend:
Cedars and Pines that wave above,
Waving adore your parent Jove.

No Evil can from thee proceed,
‘Tis only suffer’d, not decreed;
As Darkness is not from the Sun,
Nor mount the Shades till he is gone.
Even then the Pious on his guard
Stands undismay’d, for all prepar’d;
Whate’er befal, his Mind’s at rest;
Since what thou send’st, must needs be best.

O Father King, whose heavenly Face
Shines still serene on all thy Race,
Can we foget thy guardian Care,
How slow to punish, glad to spare!
We thy Magnificence adore;
We thy unceasing Aid implore:
Nor vainly for thy Help we call,
Nor can we want; for thou art ALL.