How doth the little busy bee

Whene'er I take my walks abroad, How many poor I see! What shall I render to my God For all his gifts to me?

Lord, I ascribe it to thy grace, And not to chance as others do, That I was born of Christian race, And not a Heathen, or a Jew.

There's not a place where we can flee, But God is present there.

Were I so tall to reach the pole, Or grasp the ocean with my span, I must be measured by my soul; The mind's the standard of the man.

I would not change my native land For rich Peru with all her gold. A nobler prize lies in my hand Than East or Western Indies hold.

Just as a tree cut down, that fell To north, or southward, there it lies: So man departs to heaven or hell, Fix'd in the state wherein he dies.