The spacious firmament of high, with all the blue ethereal sky, and spangled heavens a shining frame,
the great orison the proclaim, and wear its song from day to day, as it is created by this day,
and publishes to every land the work of that almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shakes,
we bear the good taste of the wondrous tale,
and nicely true the whistling earth repeats the story of her birth.
Along the stars the ground can burn,
and all the planets in their turn,
can burn the tidings as they roll,
and spread the truth from all to come.
But though in solemn silence all the ground is dark,
their rest shall fall untold,
no real voice nor sound,
nor make their radiant heart be found,
in reason's ear they all rejoice,
and utter for the glorious voice,
the ever singing as they shine,
the hand that made us its divine.