Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train,
Yet so harmonious mix'd, so fitly join'd,
One following one in such inchanting sort,
Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade,
And all so forming such a perfect whole,
That as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But wondering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks  not, marks not the mighty hand,
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the ;
Flings from the sun direct the ;
every creature; hurls the  forth;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.