Mark how those radiant lamps inflame the pole,
Call forth the seasons, and the year control:
They shine thro' time, with an unalter'd ray:
See this grand period rise, and that decay:
So vast, this world's a grain; yet myriads grace,
With golden pomp, the throng'd ethereal space;
So bright, with such a wealth of glory stor'd,
'Twere sin in heathens not to have ador'd.
How great, how firm, how sacred, all appears!
How worthy an immortal round of years!