A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

God bless the man who gave us rest
And him who taught us play,
For kindness reigned within his breast
To all our sorrow slay;
The weary heart, the fainting limb,
The soul that droops in woe,
Should most unceasing praise on him
In gratitude bestow.

He is the hero of the race,
The toiling nation's friend,
For pity smiles upon his face
With joys that never end;
He tears away the iron gyves
That chain our best repose,
And makes the deserts of our lives
To blossom as the rose.

He pours his balms into the wound
Of bosom weak and sad,
Till holy pleasures flit around
And all the heart is glad;
Till all is sweet that here before
Was wrapped in bitter woe,
And only gladness hurries o'er
The millions here below.

Great man he is, and him I give
That gratitude of mine,
Which must in brilliance while I live
With brightest glory shine,
To wreathe a radiance always gay
Around the worthy breast
Of him who first discovered play
And gave the nations rest.

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