Goes out in darkness: if, on towering wing,
I send it through the boundless vault of stars! 427
The stars, though rich, what dross their gold to thee,
Great, good, wise, wonderful, eternal King!
If to those conscious stars thy throne around,
Praise ever-pouring, and imbibing bliss;
And ask their strain; they want it, more they want,
Poor their abundance, humble their sublime, 433
Languid their energy, their ardour cold,
Indebted still, their highest rapture burns;