Whether the active sun, with chymic flames,
Through porous earth transmits his genial beams
With heat impregnating the womb of night
The offspring shines with his paternal light:
Or whether, urged by subterraneous flames,
The earth ferments and flows in liquid streams;
Purged from their dross, the nobler parts refine,
Receive new forms, and with new beauty shine:
Or whether by creation first they sprung,
When yet unpoised the world’s great fabric hung: