Whether the mind along the spangled sky
Measures her pathless walk, studious to view
Thy works of vaster fabric, where the Planets
Weave their harmonious rounds, their march directing
Still faithful, still inconstant to the Sun;
Or where the Comet thro' space infinite
(Tho' whirling worlds oppose, and globes of fire)
Darts, like a javelin, to his destin'd goal.
Or where in Heaven above the Heaven of Heavens
Burn brighter Sans, and goodlier Planets roll
With Satellits more glorious — Thou art there.