Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convuls'd-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime--The image of eternity-the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, a◄ lone! BYRON. THE CREATION REQUIRED TO PRAISE ITS AUTHOR. Begin my soul, th' exalted lay! Let each enraptur'd thought obey, And praise th' Almighty's name: To swell th' inspiring theme. Ye fields of light, celestial plains, Ye scenes divinely fair! Your Maker's wond'rous pow'r proclaim, Tell how he form'd your shining frame, And breath'd the fluid air. Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound! Let every list'ning saint above Wake all the tuneful soul of love, And touch the sweetest string. Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir; The mighty chorus aid: Soon as gray evening gilds the plain, Thou, moon, protract the melting strain, And praise him in the shade. Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode ; Whate'er a blooming world contains, That wings the air, that skims the plains, United praise bestow: Ye dragons sound his awful name To heav'n aloud; and roar acclaim, Ye swelling deeps below. Let ev'ry element rejoice; Ye thunders burst with awful voice To Him who bids you roll: |