Molten is every gloomy fold,
In yonder sea of liquid gold.
The winds, at morn so rude and hoarse,
Make music for an angel’s ear;
The sun, beclouded in his course,
Beholds the heavens, at evening, clear,
And now doth with the tempest’s wreck
His glorious pavilion deck.
Lord, sure thy countenance is here;
Thy spirit all the vale informs: