But what is the light of the lonely sea?
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glosses itself in tempests.
All time, all place, display their radiant being to declare the love of their Creator. The stars have left their ebon dome; the moon's unclouded grandeur is now spent; the eye-lids of the morn now ope. Yes:
Morn,
Waked by the circling hours, with rosy hands
Unbars the gates of light.
Then merry day vaunts with gallant foot, and every step is streaked with the glory of light; the wild deer trips from snowy height by mountain's misty top to glassy font, and high impassioned joy fills all the world, whilst many a hymn of praise records the loveliness of light. Even the dying splendour of the sun which gilds the towering clouds, over which the hours have travelled long, show pyramids of light and towers of golden brilliancy, ere he sinks in those waves of sparkling silver which bound the far-off west. Here we may quote the thoughts of Thompson, which we presume to apply to light:—
Now through the passing clouds she seems to stoop,
Now up the pure cerulian smiles awhile,
Where the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild
O'er the tall mountain to the shadowy vale,
Where rocks and floods reflect the quiv'ring gleam,
The whole air whitens with a boundless tide
Of silver radiance trembling round the world.
