Classic Poem

Knows't thou the magazines on high,
In which my stores I lay,
And bright materials to supply
The burning lamps of day?

My fair etherial mines from whence
I deal out light so fast,
As to the most profuse expense
The sun and stars can waste?

Canst thou, for age and skill explain
The place of darkness, where
Black night, and all her sable train
Of gloomy shades, repair.

Couldst thou at first, commanding light,
Divide, for equal sway;
The path for day, to chase the night;
For night, to chase the day.