Through these bright orbs' dark centres darts a ray!

Of Nature universal threads the whole!
And hangs creation, like a precious gem,
Though little, on the footstool of his throne!

That little gem, how large! a weight let fall
From a fix'd star, in ages can it reach
This distant Earth? Say, then, Lorenzo! where,
Where ends this mighty building? Where, begin
The suburbs of Creation? Where, the wall
Whose battlements look o'er into the vale
Of non-existence? Nothing's strange abode !
Say, at what point of space Jehovah dropp'd
His slacken'd line, and laid his balance by ;
Weigh'd worlds, and measur'd infinite, no more?
Where, rears his terminating pillar high
Its extra-mundane head? and says, to gods,
In characters illustrious as the Sun,

"I stand, the plan's proud period; I

pronounce

The work accomplish'd; the creation clos'd:
Shout, all ye gods! nor shout, ye gods alone;
Of all that lives, or, if devoid of life,

That rests, or rolls, ye heights, and depths, resound! Resound! resound! ye depths, and heights, resound!"

Hard are those questions ;- -answer harder still.
Is this the sole exploit, the single birth,
The solitary son of power divine?

Or has th' Almighty Father, with a breath,
Impregnated the womb of distant space?
Has he not bid, in various provinces,
Brother-creations the dark bowels burst
Of night primeval; barren, now, no more?

And he the central sun, transpiercing all
Those giant-generations, which disport,
And dance, as motes, in his meridian ray;
That ray withdrawn, benighted, or absorb'd,
In that abyss of horrour, whence they sprung;
While Chaos triumphs, repossest of all
Rival creation ravish'd from his throne?

Chaos! of Nature both the womb, and grave? Think'st thou my scheme, Lorenzo, spreads tuo

wide?

Is this extravagant?—No; this is just ;
Just in conjecture, though 't were false in fact.
If 't is an errour, 't is an errour sprung

From noble root, high thought of the Most-High.
But wherefore errour? who can prove it such ?-
He that can set Omnipotence a bound.
Can man conceive beyond what God can do?
Nothing but quite impossible is hard.

He summons into being, with like ease,

A whole creation, and a single grain.

Speaks he the word? a thousand worlds are born!
A thousand worlds! there's space for millions more!
And in what space can his great fiat fail?
Condemn me not, cold critic! but indulge

The warm imagination: why condemn?

Why not indulge such thoughts, as swell our hearts With fuller admiration of that power,

Who gives our hearts with such high thoughts to swell?

Why not indulge in his augmented praise ?

Darts not his glory a still brighter ray,

The less is left to chaos, and the realms

Of hideous night, where fancy strays aghast ;
And, though most talkative, makes no report?
Still seems my thought enormous? Think again;
Experience 'self shall aid thy lame belief.
Glasses (that revelation to the sight!)
Have they not led us in the deep disclose
Of fine-spun Nature, exquisitely small,
And, though demonstrated, still ill-conceiv'd?
If then, on the reverse, the mind would mount
In magnitude, what mind can mount too far,
To keep the balance, and creation poise?
Defect alone can err on such a theme ;
What is too great, if we the cause survey?
Stupendous Architect! thou, thou art all
My soul flies up and down in thoughts of thee,
And finds herself but at the centre still !
I Am, thy name! existence all thine own!
Creation 's nothing; flatter'd much if styl'd
"The thin, the fleeting atmosphere of God."

O for the voice of what? of whom?

Can answer to my wants, in such ascent,
As dares to deem one universe too small?

[voice What

Tell me, Lorenzo! (for now fancy glows,
Fir'd in the vortex of Almighty power)
Is not this home-creation, in the map
Of universal Nature, as a speck,
Like fair Britannia in our little ball:
Exceeding fair, and glorious, for its size,
But, elsewhere, far out-measur'd, far outshone?
In fancy (for the fact beyond us lies)
Canst thou not figure it, an isle, almost

Too small for notice, in the vast of being;

Sever'd by mighty seas of unbuilt space
From other realms; from ample continents
Of higher life, where nobler natives dwell;
Less northern, less remote from Deity,
Glowing beneath the line of the Supreme;
Where souls in excellence make haste, put forth
Luxuriant growths; nor the late autumn wait
Of human worth, but ripen soon to gods?

Yet why drown fancy in such depths as these?
Return, presumptuous rover, and confess
The bounds of man; nor blame them, as too small.
Enjoy we not full scope in what is seen?
Full ample the dominions of the Sun!
Full glorious to behold, how far, how wide
The matchless monarch, from his flaming throne,
Lavish of lustre, throws his beams about him,
Further, and faster, than a thought can fly,
And feeds his planets with eternal fires!
This Heliopolis, by greater far

Than the proud tyrant of the Nile, was built;
And he alone, who built it, can destroy.
Beyond this city, why strays human thought?
One wonderful! enough for man to know!
One infinite! enough for man to range!
One firmament! enough for man to read!
O what voluminous instruction here!

What page of wisdom is denied him? None;
If learning his chief lesson makes him wise.
Nor is instruction, here, our only gain;
There dwells a noble pathos in the skies,

Which warms our passions, proselytes our hearts.
How eloquently shines the glowing Pole !

With what authority it gives its charge,
Remonstrating great truths in style sublime,
Though silent, loud! heard Earth around; above
The planets heard; and not unheard in Hell;
Hell has her wonder, though too proud to praise.
Is Earth, then, more infernal? has she those,
Who neither praise (Lorenzo !) nor admire?
Lorenzo's admiration, pre-engag'd,

Ne'er ask'd the Moon one question; never held
Least correspondence with a single star;
Ne'er rear'd an altar to the queen of Heaven
Walking in brightness; or her train ador'd.
Their sublunary rivals have long since
Engross'd his whole devotion; stars malign,
Which made the fond astronomer run mad,
Darken his intellect, corrupt his heart;
Cause him to sacrifice his fame and peace
To momentary madness, call'd delight.
Idolater, more gross than ever kiss'd
The lifted hand to Luna, or pour'd out.

The blood to Jove! O thou, to whom belongs
All sacrifice! O thou Great Jove unfeign'd;
Divine Instructor! Thy first volume, this,
For man's perusal; all in capitals!

In Moon, and stars (Heaven's golden alphabet !)
Emblaz'd to seize the sight; who runs, may read ;
Who reads, can understand. 'T is unconfin'd
To Christian land, or Jewry; fairly writ
In language universal, to mankind:

A language, lofty to the learn'd; yet plain

To those that feed the flock, or guide the plough, Or, from his husk, strike out the bounding grain.