and the sun—who, scarce uprisen, With wheels yet hovering o’er the ocean-brim, Shot parallel to the Earth his dewy ray, Discovering in wide landskip all the east Of Paradise and Eden’s happy plains— Lowly they bowed adoring, and began Their orisons, each morning duly paid In various style; for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, More tuneable than needed lute or harp To add more sweetness: and they thus began:
“These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty! thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous then! Unspeakable! who sitt’st above these Heavens To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light, Angels, for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing—ye in Heaven; On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown’st the smiling Morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall’st. Moon, that now meet’st the orient sun, now fliest, With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies, And ye five other wandering Fires, that move In mystic dance not without song, resound His praise who out of darkness called up light. Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth Of Nature’s womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world’s great Author rise; Whether to deck with clouds