Joseph Addison

8,8,8,8

The spacious firmament on high,

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,

Does his Creator's pow'r display;

And publishes to ev'ry land

The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale.

And, nightly to the list'ning earth,

Repeats the story of her birth;

While all the stars that round her burn,

And all the planets in their turn

Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all

Move round the dark terrestrial ball?

What though no real voice, nor sound,

Amidst their radiant orbs be found?

In Reason's ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice;

For ever singing, as they shine:

'The hand that made us is divine.'