That on their pinions is not present.

Since the fourth Creation morning
When their God from dust outdrew them,
Not one plume has from them perished,
And not one bird been added to them.

Seven fair streams with all their channels
Pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter,
Round whose banks the birds go feeding,
Then soar thanksgiving songs to utter.

Midnight is their hour apportioned,
When, on magic coursers mounted,
Through the starry skies they circle,
To chants of angel choirs uncounted.

Of the foremost birds the burthen
Most melodiously unfolded
Tells of all the works of wonder
God wrought before the world He moulded.

Then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted,
When the nocturn bells are pealing,
Chants His purposes predestined
Until the Day of Doom's revealing.

Next a flock whose thoughts are blessed,
Under twilight's curls dim sweeping,
Hymn God's wondrous words of Judgment