MORNING HYMN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good! Almighty! thine this universal frame, Thus wond'rous fair: thyself, how wond'rous, then, Unspeakable! who fit'st above these heav'ns, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r 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 heav'n!— 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 then, 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 fun! of this great world both eye and foul, Acknowledge him thy greater: found his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou fall'st, Moon! that now meet'st the orient fun, now fly'st With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies; And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move In mystic dance, not without song; resound His praise, who out of darkness, call'd 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 streaming lake, dusky or grey, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great Author, rise; Whether to deck with clouds, th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, Rising, or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud! and wave your tops, ye pines! With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship, wave, Fountains! and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise.—- Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds, That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend, Bear, on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.— Ye, that in waters glide! and ye, that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep! Witness, if I be silent, morn or ev'n, To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.— Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still, To give us only good: and, if the night Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd— Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.