In motion, and wound up the vast machine?
Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs?
Who bowl'd them flaming through the dark profound,
Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew, 1280
Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze,
And set the bosom of old Night on fire?
Peopled her desert, and made horror smile?"
Or, if the military style delights thee
(For stars have fought their battles, leagued with man),
"Who marshals this bright host? enrols their names?
Appoints their posts, their marches, and returns,
Punctual, at stated periods? who disbands
These veteran troops, their final duty done,
If e'er disbanded?"--He, whose potent word, 1290
Like the loud trumpet, levied first their powers
In Night's inglorious empire, where they slept
In beds of darkness: arm'd them with fierce flames,
Arranged, and disciplined, and clothed in gold;
And call'd them out of chaos to the field,
Where now they war with vice and unbelief.
O let us join this army! joining these,
Will give us hearts intrepid, at that hour,
When brighter flames shall cut a darker night;
When these strong demonstrations of a God 1300
Shall hide their heads, or tumble from their spheres,
And one eternal curtain cover all!
Struck at that thought, as new awaked, I lift 1303
A more enlighten'd eye, and read the stars
To man still more propitious; and their aid
(Though guiltless of idolatry) implore;
Nor longer rob them of their noblest name.
O ye dividers of my time! ye bright
Accountants of my days, and months, and years,
In your fair calendar distinctly mark'd! 1310
Since that authentic, radiant register,
Though man inspects it not, stands good against him;
Since you, and years, roll on, though man stands still;
Teach me my days to number, and apply
My trembling heart to wisdom; now beyond
All shadow of excuse for fooling on.
Age smooths our path to prudence; sweeps aside
The snares keen appetite and passion spread
To catch stray souls; and woe to that grey head,
Whose folly would undo, what age has done! 1320
Aid then, aid, all ye stars!--Much rather, Thou,
Great Artist! Thou, whose finger set aright
This exquisite machine, with all its wheels,
Though intervolved, exact; and pointing out
Life's rapid, and irrevocable flight