But for the magic organ’s powerful charm,
Earth were a rude, uncolour’d chaos still.
Objects are but th’ occasion; ours th’ exploit;
Ours is the cloth,[30] the pencil, and the paint, 432
Which nature’s admirable picture draws;
And beautifies creation’s ample dome.
Like Milton’s Eve, when gazing on the lake,
Man makes the matchless image man admires.
Say then, shall man, his thoughts all sent abroad,
Superior wonders in himself forgot,