Or, art thou still an incandescent mass,
Acquiring form as hostile forces urge,
Through whose vast length a million lightnings pass
As to and fro its fiery billows surge,
Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife
Where now chaotic anarchy is rife.
Shall yet become the fair abodes of life?
We know not; for the faint, exhausted rays
Which hither on Light's wingèd coursers come
From fires which ages since first lit their blaze,