Poetry Archives

God bless the man who gave us rest
  And him who taught us play,
For kindness reigned within his breast
  To all our sorrow slay;
The weary heart, the fainting limb,
  The soul that droops in woe,
Should most unceasing praise on him
  In gratitude bestow.

He is the hero of the race,
  The toiling nation’s friend,
For pity smiles upon his face
  With joys that never end;
He tears away the iron gyves
  That chain our best repose,
And makes the deserts of our lives
  To blossom as the rose.

He pours his balms into the wound
  Of bosom weak and sad,
Till holy pleasures flit around
  And all the heart is glad;
Till all is sweet that here before
  Was wrapped in bitter woe,
And only gladness hurries o’er
  The millions here below.

Great man he is, and him I give
  That gratitude of mine,
Which must in brilliance while I live
  With brightest glory shine,
To wreathe a radiance always gay
  Around the worthy breast
Of him who first discovered play
  And gave the nations rest.