Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.
Every cloud has a silver lining.
To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.
So shall the world go on, To good malignant, to bad men benign, Under her own weight groaning.
O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.