Thank God for Pleasant Weather.

Thank God for pleasant weather!
    Chant it, merry rills!
And clap your hands together,
    Ye exulting hills!
Thank Him, teeming valley!
    Thank Him, fruitful plain!
For the golden sunshine,
    And the silver rain.

Thank God, of good the giver!
    Shout it, sportive breeze!
Respond, oh, tuneful river!
    To the nodding tees.
Thank Him, bud and birdling!
    As ye grow and sing!
Mingle in thanksgiving
    Every living thing!

Thank God, with cheerful spirit,
    In a glow of love,
For what we here inherit,
    And our hopes above!--
Universal Nature
    Revels in her birth,
When God, in pleasant weather,
    Smiles upon the earth!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Temperance Song.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

A Parody.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

My Bark is Out Upon the Sea.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Master's Song.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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September

The hills are clad in purple and in gold,
The ripened maize is gathered in the shock,
The frost has kissed the nuts, their shells unfold,
And fallen leaves are floating on the lock.

The flowers their many-colored petals drop;
But seed-pods full and ripe they leave behind,
A prophecy of more abundant crop,
And proof that nature in decay is kind.

But still the dahlia blooms, and pansies, too;
The golden-rod still rears its yellow crest.
The sumach bobs are now of crimson hue,
The luscious grape has donned its purple vest.

The forest trees, so long arrayed in green,
Wear now a robe like Joseph's coat of old,
Brighter than that on eastern satrap seen,
Tho' clad was he in purple and fine gold.

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Song Of Praise. Imitation Of The 148Th Psalm.

Warm into praises, kindling muse,
With grateful transport raise thy views
To Him, who moves this ball,
Who whirls, in silent harmony,
The earth, the ocean, air, and sky--
O praise the Lord of all!

Ye angels--hymning round your king,
Praise Him who gives you power to sing,
Ye hosts--with raptures burn;
Who station'd you in bliss, proclaim!
Oh, bless your benefactor's name,
Betokening kind return.

Ye spreading heavens, arching high,
Ye scenes unknown beyond the sky,
Creation's Maker own:
"Let there be light "--your Ruler said;
And instant your blue curtain spread
In triumph round his throne.

Thou moon, meek guardian of the night,
Ye planets of inferior light,
Ye lamps of rays divine,
Ye suns--dart forth your splendid ra...

John Clare

A Song Of Thanks

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale, -
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, -
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the beaded wheat and the fattened swine,
For the stallèd ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,

Edward Smyth Jones

Devotional Incitements

"Not to the earth confined,
Ascend to heaven."


Where will they stop, those breathing Powers,
The Spirits of the new-born flowers?
They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find;
Up from their native ground they rise
In mute aerial harmonies;
From humble violet, modest thyme,
Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
As if no space below the sky
Their subtle flight could satisfy:
Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride
If like ambition be 'their' guide.

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers,
The spirit-quickener of the flowers,
That with moist virtue softly cleaves
The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
The birds pour forth their souls in notes
Of rapture from a thousand throats
Here checked b...

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Music.

The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree,
And so has the shell that complains to the sea,
The lark that sings merrily over the lea,
        The reed of the rude shepherd boy!
We revel in music when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run,
And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
        Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!

The spirit of melody floats in the air,
Her instruments tuning to harmony there,
Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care,
        In blessings sent down from above!
But Nature has music far more to my choice--
And all in her exquisite changes rejoice!
No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voice
        When breathed by the being I love!

George Pope Morris

The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816

I

Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night!
Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude
On hearts howe'er insensible or rude;
Whether thy punctual visitations smite
The haughty towers where monarchs dwell;
Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright
Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's cell!
Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky
In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze,
Or cloud approaching to divert the rays,
Which even in deepest winter testify
Thy power and majesty,
Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze.
Well does thine aspect usher in this Day;
As aptly suits therewith that modest pace
Submitted to the chains
That bind thee to the path which God ordains
That thou shalt trace,
Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass a...

William Wordsworth