Hymn To The Sun Poem by Henry Alford

Methinks my spirit is too free
To come before thy presence high,
Obtruding on the earth and sky
Aught but their solemn joy at greeting thee;
Methinks I should confess
Some awe at standing in the way
Of this thy pomp at birth of day,
Troubling thy sole unrivalled kingliness.

Glorious conqueror! unfolding
Over the purple distance
Thy might beyond resistance
Upon the charmèd earth, that waits beholding
The fulness of thy glory, ere she dare
To tell thee she rejoices
With all her myriad voices,
Too modest--meek thy first--born joys to share.

As the mingled blazing
Of a pomp of armed bands,
Over a strait into other lands,
Gladdens the sea--boy from the cliff--side gazing;
Watching the dazzling triumph pass,
Rolling onward deep and bright
With shifting waves of light,
From floating of crimson banners, and horns of wreathed brass;

As the beacon to that scout of old,
Searching the benighted sky,
With watch--wearied eye,
Brought sudden gratulation manifold;
Bridging all the furrowed waves between
Ida and Athos, and the Lemnian steep,
And Ægiplanctus, and the deep
Roll of the bay of Argos, with a track of sheen;

So joyous on this eastward--fronting lawn
After the keen--starred night
The lifting of thy light
Fulfilleth all the promise of the dawn;
Like the bursting of a golden flood
Now flowing onward fast
Over the dewy slopes, now cast
Among flushed stems on yonder bank of wood.

With such a pomp methinks thou didst arise
When hand in hand, divinely fair,
The fresh--awakened pair
Stood gazing from thick--flowered Paradise;
Uncertain whether thou wert still the same
They saw sink down at night,
Or some great new--created light,
Or the glory of some seraph as he downward came.

Thus didst thou rise that first unclouded morn
Over the waters blank and still,
When on the Assyrian hill
Rested the ark, and the new world was born;
And when upon the strange unpeopled land,
With hands outspread and lifted eyes,
Stood round the primal sacrifice,
Under a bright--green mount, the patriarchal band.

With seven--fold glory thou shalt usher in
The new and mighty birth
Of the latter earth;
With seven days' light that morning shall begin,
Waking new songs and many an Eden--flower;
While over the hills and plains shall rise
Bright groups and saintly companies,
And never a cloud shall blot thee--never a tempest lour.