Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire,

Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star!

Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far.

4

Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre

Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire

Were all ye sang together, all that are,

all the starry songs behind thy car

8

Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire.

"If all the pens that ever poets held

Had fed the feeling of their masters’ thoughts,"

And as with rush of hurtling chariots

12

The flight of all their spirits were impelled

Toward one great end, thy glory—nay, not then,

Not yet might’st thou be praised enough of men.