God bids, and lo! a burn­ing waste,
Where rolled the floods be­fore,
And, touched by the de­scend­ing blast,
The springs are seen no more.

Sad wit­ness of some dire of­fense,
Behold the fer­tile soil
No more its wont­ed gifts dis­pense,
But mock the till­er’s toil.

He bids, and o’er the de­sert wide
The li­quid lake is spread;
New springs the thirs­ty earth di­vide,
And mur­mur­ing lift the head.

There my­ri­ads, late with hun­ger wan,
By Him as­sembled, meet;
There pleased the fu­ture ci­ty plan,
And fix their sure re­treat.

And now they sow the food­ful grain,
The ten­der vine they rear;
Now waves the har­vest o’er the plain,
And plen­ty crowns the year.

Blest in His care, the sires with joy
A nu­mer­ous race be­hold;
Nor dares dis­ease their herds an­noy,
Or waste the peo­pled fold.

His works at­­ while it sees,
The Heav’n-in­struct­ed mind
Shall own, how eq­ual His de­crees,
His pro­vi­dence, how kind!