Henry Alford

Hymn To The Sun

Methinks my spirit is too free To come before thy presence high, Obtruding on the earth and sky Aught but their solemn joy at greeting thee; Methinks I should confess Some awe at standing in the way Of this thy pomp at birth of day, Troubling thy sole unrivalled kingliness. Glorious conqueror! unfolding Over the purple distance Thy might beyond resistance Upon the charmèd earth, that waits beholding The fulness of thy glory, ere she dare To tell thee she rejoices With all her myriad voices, Too modest--meek thy first--born joys to share. As the mingled blazing Of a pomp of armed bands, Over a strait into other lands, Gladdens the sea--boy from the cliff--side gazing; Watching the dazzling triumph pass, Rolling onward deep and bright With shifting waves of light, From floating of crimson banners, and horns of wreathed brass; As the beacon to that scout of old, Searching the benighted sky, With watch--wearied eye, Brought sudden gratulation manifold; Bridging all the furrowed waves between Ida and Athos, and the Lemnian steep, And Ægiplanctus, and the deep Roll of the bay of Argos, with a track of sheen; So joyous on this eastward--fronting lawn After the keen--starred night The lifting of thy light Fulfilleth all the promise of the dawn; Like the bursting of a golden flood Now flowing onward fast Over the dewy slopes, now cast Among flushed stems on yonder bank of wood. With such a pomp methinks thou didst arise When hand in hand, divinely fair, The fresh--awakened pair Stood gazing from thick--flowered Paradise; Uncertain whether thou wert still the same They saw sink down at night, Or some great new--created light, Or the glory of some seraph as he downward came. Thus didst thou rise that first unclouded morn Over the waters blank and still, When on the Assyrian hill Rested the ark, and the new world was born; And when upon the strange unpeopled land, With hands outspread and lifted eyes, Stood round the primal sacrifice, Under a bright--green mount, the patriarchal band. With seven--fold glory thou shalt usher in The new and mighty birth Of the latter earth; With seven days' light that morning shall begin, Waking new songs and many an Eden--flower; While over the hills and plains shall rise Bright groups and saintly companies, And never a cloud shall blot thee--never a tempest lour.