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Earth on its firm basis plac'd, 3,
Scarce can our daring thought arise
! To thy pavilion in the skies; Nor can Plato's self declare The bliss, the joy, the rapture there. Barren above thou dost not reign, But circled with a glorious train, The sons of God, the sons of light, Ever joying in thy sight: (For thee their silver harps are strung) Ever beauteous, ever young: Angelic forms their voices raise, And thro' heaven's arch resound thy praise.
The feather'd souls that swim the air,
Andere to soft repose they go,
Source of light, thou bid'st. the sun On his burning axle run; The stars like dust around him fly, And.strew the area of the sky. He drives so swift his race above, Mortals can't perceive him move: So smooth his course, oblique or straight, Olympus shakes not with his weight. And as the queen of solemn night Fills at his vase the orb of light, Imparted lustre: thus we see The solar virtue shines by thee.
Eiresione, we'll no more
Thy herbage, O great Pan, sustains The flocks that graze our Attic plains : The olive, with fresh verdure crown'd, Rises pregnant from the ground;
At thy command it shoots and springs,
O ye nurses of soft dreams, Reedy brooks, and winding streams, Or murm’ring o'er the pebbles sheen, Or sliding through the meadows green, Or where through matted sedge you creep, Travelling to your parent deep; Sound his praise, by whom ye rose, That sea, which neither ebbs nor flows.
O ye immortal woods and
groves, Which th' enamour'd student loves; Beneath whose venerable shade, For thought and friendly converse made Fam'd Hecadem, old hero, lies Whose shrine is shaded from the skies
And through the gloom of silent night
Omen, monster, prodigy, Or nothing are, or Jove from thee! Whether various nature play, Or re-invers'd thy will obey, And to rebel man declare Famine, plague, or wasteful war. Laugh, ye profane, who dare despise The threatning vengeance of the skies, Whilst the pious, on his guard, Undismay'd is still prepar’d: Life or death, his mind's at rest, Since what thou send'st must needs be best.
No evil can from thee proceed:
Fantastic forms the air invade,
Can we forget thy guardian care, Slow to punish, prone to spare! Thou break'st the haughty Persian's pride, That dar'd old ocean's power deride; Their shipwrecks strew'd the Eubean wave, At Marathon they found a grave. Oye blest Greeks, who tliere expir'd, For Greece with pious ardour fir'd, What shrines or altars shall we raise To secure your endless praise? Or need we monuments supply, To rescue what can never die!
And yet a greater hero far, :
O Father, King, whase heavenly face Shines sercne on all thy sace,