So vast the plan. Fecundity divine!
Exuberant Source! perhaps, I wrong thee still.
If admiration is a source of joy,
What transport hence! Yet this the least in heaven.
What this to that illustrious robe He wears,
Who toss’d this mass of wonders from his hand,
A specimen, an earnest of his power?
’Tis to that glory, whence all glory flows,
As the mead’s meanest floweret to the sun,
Which gave it birth. But what, this sun of heaven?