James Thomson, 1700–1748.
THE SUN
* * * * *
Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;
Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn.
Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles,
When through their heaven thy changing car is borne;
Thou wheel’st away thy flight, the woods are shorn
Of all their waving locks, and storms awake—
All that was once so beautiful is torn