Page:Paradise lost by Milton, John.djvu/163

Rh Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honor to the World's great Author rise; Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living Souls; ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us only good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!"
 * So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts

Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.