That break around its varied hue—
Still to thy wonted pathway true,
Thou shinest on serenely free,
Best born of Him, whose mercy grew
In every gift, sweet world, to thee.
O countless stars, that, lost in light,
Still gem the proud sun's glory bed,
And o'er the saddening brow of night
A softer, holier influence shed—
How well your radiant march hath sped.