The Beautiful Sun

Beautiful Sun! with thy golden rays,
To God, the wise Creator, be all praise;
For thou nourisheth all the creation,
Wherever there is found to be animation.

Without thy heat we could not live,
Then praise to God we ought to give;
For thou makest the fruits and provisions to grow,
To nourish all creatures on earth below.

Thou makest the hearts of the old feel glad,
Likewise the young child and the lad,
And the face of Nature to look green and gay,
And the little children to sport and play.

Thou also givest light unto the Moon,
Which certainly is a very great boon
To all God’s creatures here below,
Throughout the world where’er they go.

How beautiful thou look’st on a summer morn,
When thou sheddest thy effulgence among the yellow corn,
Also upon lake, and river, and the mountain tops,
Whilst thou leavest behind the most lovely dewdrops!

How beautiful thou seem’st in the firmament above,
As I gaze upon thee, my heart fills with love
To God, the great Creator, Who has placed thee there,
Who watches all His creatures with an eye of care!

Thou makest the birds to sing on the tree,
Also by meadow, mountain, and lea;
And the lark high poised up in air,
Carolling its little song with its heart free from care.

Thou makest the heart of the shepherd feel gay
As he watches the little lambkins at their innocent play;
While he tends them on the hillside all day,
Taking care that none of them shall go astray.

Thou cheerest the weary traveller while on his way
During the livelong summer day,
As he admires the beautiful scenery while passing along,
And singing to himself a stave of a song.

Thou cheerest the tourist while amongst the Highland hills,
As he views their beautiful sparkling rills
Glittering like diamonds by the golden rays,
While the hills seem to offer up to God their praise.

While the bee from flower to flower does roam
To gather honey, and carry it home;
While it hums its little song in the beautiful sunshine,
And seemingly to thank the Creator divine —

For the honey it hath gathered during the day,
In the merry month of May,
When the flowers are in full bloom,
Also the sweet honeysuckle and the broom.

How beautiful thy appearance while setting in the west,
Whilst encircled with red and azure, ’tis then thou look’st best!
Then let us all thank God for thy golden light
In our prayers every morning and night!

Wikipedia Article

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Comments (1) »

  1. In the year 2018, on the 13th day of March at 11:15 pm

    I find this one something of a departure from McGonegall’s usual. The scan, of course, is his usual (meaning almost nonexistent), the rhymes also (either tite or strained), and the sentiment as… sentimental.

    But the subject is a bit of an anomaly, in that for once it’s neither an ode to a work of )such as a city, bridge, or tower), a news incident (which may well hold more detail than most articles of the time), a scenic view, or Her Majesty Victoria Regina (his favorite subject by far).

    No, in this case, it is a celestial object, and one that is touched upon by other poets. This is in contrast to most of McGonegall’s works, since he tends to wax most eloquent on subjects that the more… notable? Yes, notable poets would rarely choose.
    I find myself reading this and feeling somewhat unsatisfied.

    The Sun? Pah. Tennyson could do the Sun. Burns could as well, or Shelley. But where are the ship-wrecks? Where are the collapsing bridges, or the latest random appearance of Her Majesty? Where is the improbable insight that apparently let him know the phobias and hopes of the man caught underground due to the latest structural failing?

    I read this, at any moment expecting the Celestial Orb to suddenly crash into a Dundee tobacconist’s shop, for that McGonegall touch, or perhaps for the Queen to peek over the edge and wave. But no, it merely hangs there in the sky, doing good things like any poet could enumerate, and do.

    By the standards of his usual works, this is rather mundane. Perhaps it was off day, or such. It is certainly McGonegall, but not his best.

    He is ever better writing about the Tay, than about Phoebus’ chariot.

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