Extract from Book V

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,	       
Almighty! thine this universal frame,	
Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous then!	
Unspeakable! who sitt’st above these heavens	
To us invisible, or dimly seen	
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare	       
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.	
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,	
Angels—for ye behold him, and with songs	
And choral symphonies, day without night,	
Circle his throne rejoicing—ye in heaven;	       
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol	
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.	
Fairest of stars, last in the train of Night,	
If better thou belong not to the Dawn,	
Sure pledge of day, that crown’st the smiling morn	       
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere	
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.	
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,	
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise	
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st,	       
And when high noon has gained, and when thou fall’st.	
Moon, that now meet’st the orient sun, now fliest,	
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies;	
And ye five other wandering fires, that move	
In mystic dance, not without song, resound	       
His praise who out of darkness called up light.	
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth	
Of Nature’s womb, that in quaternion run	
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix	
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change	       
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.	
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise	
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,	
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,	
In honor to the world’s great Author rise;	       
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,	
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,	
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.	
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,	
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,	       
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.	
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,	
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.	
Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds,	
That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend,	       
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.	
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk	
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,—	
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,	
To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,	       
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.	
Hail, universal Lord! Be bounteous still	
To give us only good; and if the night	
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,	
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.


 = David Juda