| |
| SING aloud! His praise rehearse | |
| Who hath made the universe. | |
| He the boundless heavens has spread, | |
| All the vital orbs has kned, 1 | |
| He that on Olympus high | 5 |
| Tends his flocks with watchful eye, | |
| And this eye 2 hath multiplied | |
| ’Midst each flock 3 for to reside. | |
| Thus, as round about they stray, | |
| Toucheth 4 each with outstretched ray; | 10 |
| Nimble they hold on their way, | |
| Shaping out their night and day. | |
| Summer, winter, autumn, spring, | |
| Their inclinèd axes bring. | |
| Never slack they; none respires, | 15 |
| Dancing round their central fires. | |
| In due order as they move, | |
| Echoes sweet be gently drove | |
| Thorough heaven’s vast hollowness, | |
| Which unto all corners press: | 20 |
| Fills the listening sailers’ ears | |
| Riding on the wandering spheres: | |
| Neither speech nor language is | |
| Where their voice is not transmiss. | |
| |
| God is good, is wise, is strong, | 25 |
| Witness all the creature throng, | |
| Is confessed by every tongue; | |
| All things back 5 from whence they sprung, | |
| As the thankful rivers pay | |
| What they borrowed of the sea. | 30 |
| |
| Now myself I do resign: | |
| Take me whole: I all am Thine. | |
| Save me, God, from self-desire,— | |
| Death’s pit, dark hell’s raging fire— | |
| Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire: | 35 |
| Let not lust my soul bemire. | |
| |
| Quit from these, Thy praise I’ll sing, | |
| Loudly sweep the trembling string. | |
| Bear a part, O Wisdom’s sons, | |
| Freed from vain religions! | 40 |
| Lo, from far, I you salute, | |
| Sweetly warbling on my lute— | |
| India, Egypt, Araby, | |
| Asia, Greece, and Tartary, | |
| Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon, | 45 |
| With the Mountains of the Moon, | |
| From whence muddy Nile doth run, | |
| Or wherever else you won: 6 | |
| Breathing in one vital air, | |
| One we are, though distant far. | 50 |
| |
| Rise at once, let’s sacrifice; | |
| Odours sweet perfume the skies; | |
| See how heavenly lightning fires | |
| Hearts inflamed with high aspires! | |
| All the substance of our souls | 55 |
| Up in clouds of incense rolls. | |
| Leave we nothing to ourselves | |
| Save a voice—what need we else!— | |
| Or an hand to wear and tire | |
| On the thankful lute or lyre! | 60 |
| |
| Sing aloud—His praise rehearse | |
| Who hath made the universe. | |
