Whence are these varied lamps all lighted round?—
Whence all the horizon’s glowing fire?—The heaven
Is splendent as with lightning—but no sound
Of thunder—all as calm as gentlest even;
And winter’s midnight is as bright, as gay,
As the fair noontide of a summer’s day.
What stores of fire are these, what magazine,
Whence God from grossest darkness light supplies?
What wondrous fabric which the mountains screen,
Whose bursting flames above those mountains rise;