Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations! that now rise
From Hill or standing Lake, dusky or gray,
Till the Sun paint your fleecy Skirts with gold,
In Honour to the World's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with Clouds th' uncolour'd Sky,
Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling show'rs,
Rising or falling still advance his Praise.
His Praise, ye Winds! that from our Quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your Tops, ye Pines!