Labour with thee forgets his pain,
And aged Poverty can smile with thee,
If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain,
And weak the uplifted arm of Tyranny.
The morning opes on high
His universal eye;
And on the world doth pour
His glories in a golden shower.
Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile ray
Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn;
The brood obscene, that own her gloomy sway,
Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn.
Pale shivering ghosts, that dread th' all-chearing light,
Quick, as the lightnings flash, glide to sepulchral night.