Oh! thou that rollest in the lofty Heav'ns,
Round as the Shield that erst my Fathers wore:
Whence dost thou draw the Lustre of thy Beams?
And where is thy eternal Source of Light?
Thou in thy awful Beauty comest forth,
And the Stars hide themselves amidst thy Blaze:
The languid Moon with Aspect cold, and pale,
Sinks in the Bosom of the western Wave;
But thou thyself movest alone, Oh Sun!
Who can attend thee in thy swift Career?
The solid Oaks that tow'r upon the Mountains
Yield prostrate Homage to the Monarch-Time,
The Mountains totter, and decay with Years,
Tho' fixt for Ages on the firmest Base;
The tumid Ocean shrinks, and grows again,
The Moon herself is lost within the Heav'ns:
But thou, Oh Sun! for ever art the same,
Rejoicing in the Brightness of thy Course:
When Tempests darken, and appall the World,
When Thunder rolls, and Lightning wings its Way,
Thou in thy Beauty lookest from the Clouds,
And laughest at the Terrors of the Storm:
But ah! to Ossian — 'tis in vain thou lookest,
For he beholds thy chearful Beams no more:
Whether thy yellow Hair on eastern Clouds
Resplendent flows — or at the Eve of Day
Thou tremblest at the Portals of the West;
But thou perchance like me art for a Season,
And Time shall put a Period to thy Years:
Thou in thy Clouds perhaps shalt one Day sleep,
Careless for ever of the Morn's sweet Voice;
Exult then, Oh thou Sun! in youthful Strength,
Age is unlovely, desolate, and dark,
'Tis like the feeble Splendor of the Moon
That shines thro' broken Clouds, when rising Mist
Enwraps the Hills, and blots them from the Sight,
When the North-Blast is howling on the Plain,
When in his Journey shrinks the Traveller,
Weary, and half Way distant from his Home.