O Thou! who rollest in yon azure field, 
 Round as the orb of my forefather’s shield, 
 Whence are thy beams? From what eternal store 
 Dost thou, O Sun! thy vast effulgence pour? 
 In awful grandeur, when thou movest on high, 
 The stars start back and hide them in the sky; 
 The pale Moon sickens in thy brightening blaze, 
 And in the western wave avoids thy gaze. 
 Alone thou shinest forth—for who can rise 
 Companion of thy splendour in the skies! 
 The mountain oaks are seen to fall away—