I
THO frosts destroy or blasts invade,
The Fig-tree's early bloom;
Or teeming vines in ruin laid,
By a severer doom.

II
Altho the olive, chearful plant!
Should wither, droop, and die,
And ev'ry Field, present pale WANT,
With meagre FAMINE nigh.

III
The Herds which erst made glad in the vale,
Should ruminate no more;
Nor yet at eve, within the pale,
Immur'd, our fleecy store.

IV
Tho nature sickening all around,
Shed death from every star!
Nor pleasure's voice, nor cheerful sound,
Accost the listening ear.

V
Yet would I praise -- forever praise!
The sov'reign of the skies!
And my unceasing, ardent lays,
Should gratefully arise.