ns contain;
But tho' thy throne is fix'd above the sky,
Thy _Omnipresence_ fills immensity.
Saints rob'd in white, to thee their anthems bring,
And radient Martyrs hallelujahs sing:
Heav'n's universal host their voices raise,
In one _eternal chorus_, to thy praise;
And round thy awful throne, with one accord,
Sing, Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord.
At thy creative voice, from ancient night,
Sprang smiling beauty, and yon' worlds of light:
Thou spak'st--the planetary Chorus roll'd
And all th' expanse was starr'd with beamy gold;
_Let there be light_, said GOD--Light instant shone,
And from the orient, burst the golden Sun;
Heav'n's gazing hierarchies, with glad surprise,
Saw the first morn invest the skies,
And straight th' exulting troops thy throne surround,
With thousand thousand harps of heav'nly sound:
Thrones, powers, dominions, (ever shining trains!)
Shouted thy praises in triumphant strains:
_Great are thy works_, they sing, and, all around,
_Great are thy works_, the echoing heav'n's resound.
The effulgent sun, insufferably bright,
Is but a beam of thy o'erflowing light;
The tempest is thy breath; the thunder hurl'd,
Tremendous roars thy vengeance o'er the world;
Thou bow'st the heav'ns the smoaking mountains nod;
Rocks fall to dust, and nature owns her God;
Pale tyrants shrink, the atheist stands aghast,
And impious kings in horror breath their last.
To this great God alternately I'd pay,
The evening anthem, and the morning lay.

For sov'reign _Gold_ I never would repine,
Nor wish the glitt'ring dust of monarchs mine.
What tho' high columns heave into the skies,
Gay ceilings shine, and vaulted arches rise;
Tho' fretted gold the sculptur'd roof adorn,
The rubies redden, and the jaspers burn!
Or what, alas! avails the gay attire,
To wretched man, who breathes but to expire!
Oft on the vilest, riches are bestow'd,
To shew their meanness in the sight of God.
High from a dung-hill, see a _Dives_ rise,
And, _Titan_-like, insult th' avenging skies:
The crowd, in adulation, calls him Lord,
By thousands courted, flatter'd, and ador'd:
In riot plung'd, and drunk with earthly joys,
No higher thought his grov'ling foul employs:
The poor he scourges with an iron rod,
And from his bosom banishes his God.
But oft i