great parent! whose continual hand
Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year,
How mighty, how majestie are thy works!
With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul!
That sees astonish'd! and astonish'd sings!
Ye too, ye winds! that now begin to blow,
With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you.
Where are your stores, ye subtil beings! say,
Where your aerial magazines reserv'd,
Against the day of tempest perilous?
In what far-distant region of the sky,
Hush'd in dead silence, sleep you when 'tis calm?