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THE

POETICAL PRECEPTOR.

MILTON.

THE MORNING HYMN

OF
ADAM AND EVE.

(Trom the Fifth Book of faradise Lost.)

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THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! thine this univerfal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous thea!
Vulpeakable, who fitt fi above there Heavens
To us invifinle, or dimly seen
In these thiy loweft works, yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak, 'e who best can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels; for ye behold Hun, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne r'joicing; ye in Heaven,
On Earth, join all ye Creatures to extol
Him fiskt, Him las, Hinn nicht and without end.

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Fairest of Nars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morz
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, found his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'ft,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'.
Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fiy’ft
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wand'ring fres that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd 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 fun paint your feecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise !
Whether to deck with clouds th’uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rifing or falling still advance his pra se.
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,

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