What tho' my frail eyelids refuse (Benjamin Milgrove)

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• CPDL #22104: 

Editor: Christopher Shaw (submitted 2010-08-15).   Score information: Letter, 4 pages, 73 kB   Copyright: Personal

Edition notes: Please click on the link for preview/playback/PDF download.

General Information

Title: What tho' my frail eyelids refuse
Composer: Benjamin Milgrove

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB

Genre: Sacred, Hymn

Language: English
Instruments: Organ
Published: 1781

Description: Milgrove was Precentor of the Countess of Huntingdon's Chapel in Bath. This setting comes from "Twelve hymns and a favourite lyric poem written by Doctor Watts; set to music for four, and five voices, with organ accompaniments. . . " Printed for the author, and sold at his house in Bond Street, Bath, 1781. The general congregation (sometimes divided into men and women) should sing the Air.

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Original text and translations

English text

What tho' my frail eyelids refuse
Continually watching to keep,
And punctual as midnight renews
Demand the refreshment of sleep:
A sov'reign protector I have,
Unseen yet for ever at hand,
Unchangeably faithful to save,
Almighty to rule and command.

From evil secure, and its dread,
I rest if my saviour is nigh;
And songs his kind presence indeed
Shall in the night season supply:
He smiles, and my comforts abound;
His grace at the dew shall descend;
And walls of salvation surround
The soul he delights to defend.

Kind author and ground of my hope,
Thee, Thee for my God I avow;
My glad Ebenezer, set up:
And own, thou hast helped me till now.
I muse on the years that are past,
Wherein my defence thou hast prov'd;
Nor wilt thou relinquish at last,
A sinner so signally loved.

Inspirer and hearer of pray'r,
Thou feeder and guardian of thine,
My all to thy covenant-care
I, sleeping and waking, resign;
If thou art my shield and my sun,
The night is no darkness to me;
And, fast as my moments roll on,
They bring me but nearer to thee.

Thy minist'ring spirits descend,
To watch while thy saints are asleep;
By day and by night they attend,
The heirs of salvation to keep:
Bright seraphs, dispatch'd from the throne,
repair to their stations assign'd;
And angels elect are sent down,
To guard the elect of mankind.

Thy worship no interval knows;
Their fervour is still on the wing;
And, while they protect my repose,
They chaunt to the praise of my king;
I too, as the season ordain'd,
Their chorus for ever shall join,
And love and adore, without end,
Their faithful creator, and mine.