Joseph Addison



    The spacious firmament on high,1
    With all the blue æthereal sky,
    And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
    Their great Original proclaim:
    Th' unwearied sun from day to day,
    Does his Creator's pow'r display,
    And publishes to every land
    The work of an Almighty hand.


    Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,
    The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
    And nightly to the list'ning earth,
    Repeats the story of her birth:
    Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
    And all the planets in their turn,
    Confirm the tidings as they roll,
    And spread the truth from pole to pole.


    What though in solemn silence, all
    Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
    What though, nor real voice nor sound
    Amid their radiant orbs be found?
    In reason's ear they all rejoice,
    And utter forth a glorious voice,
    For ever singing as they shine,
    The hand that made us is divine.

    † Originally published in the Spectator.

          Excerpted from:

          The Works of Joseph Addison. Vol I.
          George Washington Greene, ed.
          Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co., 1888. 202.

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