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