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SUMMER EVENING's
Sits like an exil'd monarch: fearleſs thence
I launch into the trackleſs deeps of ſpace,
Where, burning round, ten thouſand ſuns appear,
Of elder beam; which aſk no leave to ſhine
Of our terreſtrial ſtar, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our ſcanty day;
Sons of the morning, firſt-born of creation,
And only leſs than Him who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here muſt I ſtop,
Or is there aught beyond? What hand unſeen
Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To ſolitudes of vaſt unpeopled ſpace,
The deſarts of creation, wide and wild;
Where embryo ſyſtems and unkindled ſuns
Sleep in the tomb of chaos? fancy droops,
And
