The magic car moved on. 
The night was fair, and countless stars
Studded Heaven’s dark blue vault,—­
Just o’er the eastern wave 210
Peeped the first faint smile of morn:—­
The magic car moved on—­
From the celestial hoofs
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew,
And where the burning wheels 215
Eddied above the mountain’s loftiest peak,
Was traced a line of lightning. 
Now it flew far above a rock,
The utmost verge of earth,
The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow 220
Lowered o’er the silver sea.

Far, far below the chariot’s path,
Calm as a slumbering babe,
Tremendous Ocean lay. 
The mirror of its stillness showed 225
The pale and waning stars,
The chariot’s fiery track,
And the gray light of morn
Tinging those fleecy clouds
That canopied the dawn. 230
Seemed it, that the chariot’s way
Lay through the midst of an immense concave,
Radiant with million constellations, tinged
With shades of infinite colour,
And semicircled with a belt 235
Flashing incessant meteors.

The magic car moved on. 
As they approached their goal
The coursers seemed to gather speed;
The sea no longer was distinguished; earth 240
Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere;
The sun’s unclouded orb
Rolled through the black concave;
Its rays of rapid light
Parted around the chariot’s swifter course, 245
And fell, like ocean’s feathery spray
Dashed from the boiling surge
Before a vessel’s prow.

The magic car moved on. 
Earth’s distant orb appeared 250
The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven;
Whilst round the chariot’s way
Innumerable systems rolled,
And countless spheres diffused
An ever-varying glory. 255
It was a sight of wonder:  some
Were horned like the crescent moon;
Some shed a mild and silver beam
Like Hesperus o’er the western sea;
Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, 260
Like worlds to death and ruin driven;
Some shone like suns, and, as the chariot passed,
Eclipsed all other light.

Spirit of Nature! here! 
In this interminable wilderness 265
Of worlds, at whose immensity
Even soaring fancy staggers,
Here is thy fitting temple. 
Yet not the lightest leaf
That quivers to the passing breeze 270
Is less instinct with thee: 
Yet not the meanest worm
That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead
Less shares thy eternal breath. 
Spirit of Nature! thou! 275
Imperishable as this scene,
Here is thy fitting temple.