Great source of day! blest image here below
  Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
  Prom world to world, the vital ocean round,
  On nature write with every beam His praise. 
  The thunder rolls:  be hushed the prostrate world,
  While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
  Bleat out afresh, ye hills:  ye mossy rocks,
  Retain the sound; the broad responsive low,
  Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns,
  And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 
  Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song
  Burst from the groves; and when the restless day,
  Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,
  Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm
  The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 
  Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles;
  At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all,
  Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast,
  Assembled men to the deep organ join
  The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
  At solemn pauses, through the swelling base;
  And, as each mingling flame increases each,
  In one united ardour rise to Heaven. 
  Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
  And find a fane in every sacred grove,
  There let the shepherd’s lute, the virgin’s lay,
  The prompting seraph, and the poet’s lyre,
  Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. 
  For me, when I forget the darling theme,
  Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray
  Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
  Or Winter rises in the blackening east—­
  Se my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more,
  And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

  Should Fate command me to the furthest verge
  Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
  Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
  Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
  Flames on the Atlantic isles, ’tis nought to me;
  Since God is ever present, ever felt,
  In the void waste as in the city full;

  And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. 
  When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
  And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,
  I cheerfully will obey; there with new powers,
  Will rising wonders sing.  I cannot go
  Where Universal Love not smiles around,
  Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
  From seeming evil still educing good,
  And better thence again, and better still,
  In infinite progression.  But I lose
  Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! 
  Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise.

  [RULE, BRITANNIA]

  AN ODE:  FROM ALFRED, A MASQUE

  When Britain first, at Heaven’s command,
  Arose from out the azure main,
  This was the charter of the land,
  And guardian angels sang this strain: 
  Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! 
  Britons never will be slaves!