Guardian to man thou art, almost divine,
Doing below as angel hosts above.
Thine is it, Air, at morn's first op'ning light,
To hang rich curtains in the eastern sky,
Which, casting back their own refulgence bright,
Proclaim to earth that glorious day is nigh.
Thine is the task, as heaven's all-wondrous orb
Fills the eternal arch that o'er us spans,
Within thyself its fiercest rays t' absorb,
And make its milder, softer radiance man's.