XXI.

But when _thine_ orb, all earth’s rich hues restoring, Came forth, O sun! in majesty supreme, Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring Beauty and life in each triumphant beam, Through thine own East what joyous rites prevail’d! What choral songs re-echo’d! while thy fire Shone o’er its thousand altars, and exhaled The precious incense of each odorous pyre, Heap’d with the richest balms of spicy vales, And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales.