And spangled Heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

Th' unwearied Sun from day to day

Does his Creator's power display;

And publishes, to every land,

The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;

And nightly, to the listening Earth,

Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,

And all the planets in their turn,

Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all

Move round the dark terrestrial ball;

What though nor real voice, nor sound

Amidst their radiant orbs be found;

In reason's ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice;

For ever singing as they shine:

'The Hand that made us is divine.'