A Morning Hymn

To thee, let my first offerings rise, Whose sun creates the day, Swift as his glad'ning influence flies, And spotless as his ray. What numbers with heart-piercing sighs Have past this tedious night! What numbers too have clos'd their eyes, No more to see the light! Sound was my sleep, my dreams were gay, How short such time review'd! My night stole unperceiv'd away; I'm like the day renew'd. This day thy fav'ring hand be nigh, So oft vouchsaf'd before; Still may it lead, protect, supply, And I that hand adore. If bliss thy Providence impart, For which resign'd I pray, Give me to feel the grateful heart, And without guilt be gay. Affliction, should thy love intend, As vice or folly's cure, Patient to gain that gracious end, May I the means endure. Thus from my fix'd or varying fate, Some virtue let me gain, That Heaven, nor high, nor low estate, When sent, may send in vain. Be this, and ev'ry future day Still wiser than the past, That life's improvement to survey May well sustain my last.