Lord, without Thee nought is sweet,
    Nought my life can satisfy,
  If Thy favour make not meet
    What I drink and what I eat;
  Let faith all things sanctify!

  O’er this bread God’s grace be poured,
    Christ’s sweet fragrance fill the bowl! 
  Rule my converse, Triune Lord,
    Sober thought and sportive word,
  All my acts and all my soul.

  Spoils of rose-trees are not spent,
    Nor rich unguents on my board: 
  But ambrosial sweets are sent,
    Of faith’s nectar redolent,
  From the bosom of my Lord.

  Scorn, my Muse, light ivy-leaves
    Wherewith custom wreathed thy brow: 
  Love a mystic crown conceives
    And a rhythmic garland weaves: 
  Bind on thee God’s praises now.

  What more worthy gift can I,
    Child of light and aether, bring
  Than for boons the Maker high
    From His bounty doth supply
  Lovingly my thanks to sing?

  He hath set ’neath our command
    All that ever rose to be,
  All that sky and sea and land
    Breed in air, in glebe and sand,
  Made my slaves, His own made me.

  Fowler’s craft with gin and net
    Feathered tribes of heaven ensnares: 
  Osier twigs with lime o’erset
    That their airy flight may let
  His relentless guile prepares.

  Lo! with woven mesh the seine
    Swimming shoals draws from the wave: 
  Nor do fish the bait disdain
    Till they feel the barb’s swift pain,
  Captives of the food they crave.

  Native wealth that knows no fail,
    Golden wheat springs from the field: 
  Tendrils lush o’er vineyards trail,
    Nursed of Peace the olives pale
  Berries green unbidden yield.

  Christ’s grace fills His people’s need
    With these mercies ever fresh: 
  Far from us be that foul greed,
    Gluttony that loves to feed
  On slain oxen’s bloodstained flesh.

  Leave to the barbarian brood
    Banquet of the slaughtered beast: 
  Ours the homely, garden food,
    Greenstuff manifold and good
  And the lentils’ harmless feast.

  Foaming milkpails bubble o’er
    With the udders’ snowy stream,
  Which in thickening churns we pour
    Or in wicker baskets store,
  As the cheese is pressed from cream.

  Honey’s nectar for our use
    From the new-made comb is shed: 
  Which the skilful bee imbues
    With thyme’s scent and airy dews,
  Plying lonely toils unwed.

  Orchard-groves now mellowed o’er
    Bounteously their fruitage shed: 
  See! like rain on forest floor
    Shaken trees their riches pour,
  High-heaped apples, ripe and red.

  What great trumpet voice or lyre
    Famed of yore could fitly praise
  Gifts of the Almighty Sire,
    Blessings that His own require,
  Richly lavished through their days?