Wonders that else man’s eye would never see?
Waste in the blank and blinding glare of Day,
The heavens bud forth their glories but to me.
Is it not mine to pile their crystal cup,
Drain’d by the thirsty sun and void by day,
Brimful of living gems, profuse heap’d up,
The bounteous largesse of my royal way?
Mine to call o’er at dusk the roll of heav’n,
Array its glittering files in order due?
To beckon forth the lurking star of Even,