The waves that rise would drown the highest hill,
But at thy check they flie, and when they hear
Thy thundring voice, they post to do thy will,
And bound their furies in their proper sphere:
Where surging flouds, and valing ebbs can tell,
That none beyond thy marks must sink or swell.
Who hath dispos'd, but thou, the winding way
Where springs down from the steepy crags do beat,
At which both foster'd Beasts their thirsts allay,
And the wild Asses come to quench their heat;
Where Birds resort, and in their kind, thy praise
Among the branches chant in warbling laies.
The mounts are watred from thy dwelling place,
The barns and meads are fill'd for man and beast;
Wine glads the heart, and oyl adorns the face,
And bread the staff whereon our strength doth rest;
Nor shrubs alone feel thy suffizing hand,
But even the Cedars that so proudly stand.
So have the Fowls their sundry seats to breed,
The ranging Stork in stately Beeches dwells;
The climing Goats on hills securely feed,
The mining Conies shroud in rocky Cells:
Nor can the heavenly lights their course forget,
The Moon her turns, or Sun his times to set.
Thou mak'st the Night to over-vail the Day;
Then savage Beasts creep from the silent wood,
Then Lions whelps lie roaring for their prey,
And at thy powerful hand demand their food:
VVho when at morn they all recouch again,
Then toyling man till eve pursues his pain.