Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

As when the burning Majesty of Day
The golden-hoofed steeds doth speed away
To reach the summit of the Eastern hill;
(And sweet expectance all the World doth fill;)

With all his gorgeous company of Clouds
(Wherein sometimes his awful face he shrouds),
Of amber, and of gold, he marcheth on,
And the pure Angels sing before his throne;

Beneath his feet the beams of Morning play;
Before him the immortal Seasons stray;
And, looking down from that thrice sacred height,
He fills the boundless kingdoms with his light:

So You, great Sir, if fitly we design
The kingly glory by a type divine,
Like that exalted Shepherd , on his way,
Disperse our darkness, and restore our day:

The tears, which we have shed, no more shall flow;
Your beauteous rising in our hearts shall glow;
And hymns of praise, as we behold your light,
Shall warble from the bosom of the night!

Apollo, or the Sun.