Or shall we touch that kind access of joy, That springs to each fair object, while we trace, Through all its fabric, Wisdom's artful aim, Disposing every part, and gaining still, By means proportion'd, her benignant end? Speak ye, the pure delight, whose favour'd steps The lamp of Science through the jealous maze Of Nature guides, when haply you reveal Her secret honours: whether in the sky, The beauteous laws of light, the central powers 130 That wheel the pensile planets round the year; Whether in wonders of the rolling deep, Or the rich fruits of all-sustaining earth, Or fine-adjusted springs of life and sense, Ye scan the counsels of their Author's hand. What, when to raise the meditated scene, The flame of passion, through the struggling soul Deep-kindled, shows across that sudden blaze The object of its rapture, vast of size, With fiercer colours and a night of shade? 140 What, like a storm from their capacious bed The sounding seas o'erwhelming, when the might Of these eruptions, working from the depth Of man's strong apprehension, shakes his frame Even to the base; from every naked sense Of pain or pleasure, dissipating all Opinion's feeble coverings, and the veil Spun from the cobweb fashion of the times To hide the feeling heart? Then Nature speaks Her genuine language, and the words of men, 150 Big with the very motion of their souls, Declare with what accumulated force The impetuous nerve of passion urges on The native weight and energy of things.