The Spacious Firmament on high, With all the blue Ethereal Sky, And spangled Heav’ns, a Shining Frame, Their great Original proclaim: Th’ unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator’s Pow’r display, And publishes to every Land The Work of an Almighty Hand. Soon as the Evening Shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous Tale, And nightly to the list’ning Earth Repeats the Story of her Birth: Whilst all the Stars that round her burn, And all the Planets, in their turn, Confirm the Tidings as they rowl, And spread the Truth from Pole to Pole. What though, in solemn Silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial Ball? What tho’ nor real Voice nor Sound Amid their radiant Orbs be found? In Reason’s Ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious Voice, For ever singing, as they shine, The Hand that made us is Divine.