What numbers of our race survey

What numbers of our race survey The monarch of the golden day, Night's ample canopy unfurl'd, In gloomy grandeur round the world, The earth in spring's embroidery drest, And ocean's ever working breast! And still no grateful honours rise To him who spreads the spacious skies, Who hung this air suspended ball, And lives, and reigns, and shines, in all! To chase our sensual fogs away, And bright to pour th' eternal ray Of Deity inscrib'd around Wide nature to her utmost bound, Is HERVEY's task: And well his skill Celestial can the task fulfil: Ascending from these scenes below, Ardent the Maker's praise to show, His sacred contemplations soar, And teach our wonder to adore. Now he surveys the realms beneath, The realms of horrour, and of death; Now entertains his vernal hours In flow'ry walks, and blooming bow'rs; Now hails the black brow'd night, that brings Ethereal dews upon her wings; Now marks the planets, as they roll On burning axles round the pole: While tombs, and flow'rs, and shades, and stars, Unveil their sacred characters Of justice, wisdom, pow'r, and love, And lift the soul to realms above, Where dwells the God, in glory crown'd, Who sends his boundless influence round. So Jacob, in his blissful dreams, Array'd in Heav'n's refulgent beams, Saw from the ground a scale arise, Whose summit mingled with the skies: Angels were pleas'd to pass the road, The stage to earth, and path to God. HERVEY, proceed: For nature yields Fresh treasure in her ample fields; And in seraphick ecstasy Still bear us to the throne on high. Ocean's wild wonders next explore, His changing scenes, and secret store; Or let dire EARTHQUAKE claim thy toil, EARTHQUAKE, that shakes a guilty isle. So, if small things may shadow forth, Dear man, thy labours and thy worth, The bee upon the flow'ry lawn, Imbibes the lucid drops of dawn; Works them in his mysterious mould, And turns the common dew to gold.