Anna Laetitia Barbauld

Hymn I

HYMN I.
JEHOVAH reigns: let every nation hear,
And at his footstool bow with holy fear;
 Let heaven's high arches echo with his name,
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim;
Then send it down to hell's deep glooms resounding,
Thro' all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding.
 He rules with wide and absolute command
O'er the broad ocean and the stedfast land:
Jehovah reigns, unbounded, and alone,
And all creation hangs beneath his throne:
He reigns alone; let no inferior nature
Usurp, or share the throne of the creator.

Creation narrative structure

Barbauld follows Genesis 1 closely: light, celestial bodies, earth, water, vegetation. She's not inventing—she's versifying scripture to make theology emotionally immediate.

 He saw the struggling beams of infant light
Shoot thro' the massy gloom of ancient night;
His spirit hush'd the elemental strife,
And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life:
Seasons and months began the long procession
And measur'd o'er the year in bright succession.
 The joyful sun sprung up th' etherial way,
Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay;

Personification of celestial bodies

The sun as 'a giant' and 'bridegroom' draws from Psalm 19:5. This language makes abstract cosmology concrete and gives readers emotional entry points.

And the pale moon diffus'd her shadowy light
Superior o'er the dusky brow of night;
Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning,

Dew drops simile

Stars compared to 'dew drops from the womb of morning'—notice the feminine generative language. Earth and sky are productive, fertile, alive in ways that emphasize divine craftsmanship.

Numerous as dew drops from the womb of morning.
 Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he drest,
And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast;
Then from the hollow of his hand he pours
The circling waters round her winding shores,
The new-born world in their cool arms embracing,
And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing.
 At length she rose complete in finish'd pride,
All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride;

Virgin bride imagery

The completed earth as 'spotless, like a virgin bride' echoes both Genesis and the Song of Songs. This comparison makes the planet an object of aesthetic perfection and male approval.

Fresh with untarnish'd lustre as she stood
Her Maker bless'd his work, and call'd it good;
The morning stars with joyful acclamation
Exulting sung, and hail'd the new creation.

Apocalyptic turn

At line 39, the poem shifts from creation to destruction. Despite God's perfection, creation is temporary ('creature of a day'). This isn't pessimism—it's theodicy: impermanence proves divine power.

 Yet this fair world, the creature of a day,
Tho' built by God's right hand, mud pass away;
And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things,
The fate of empires, and the pride of kings:
Eternal night shall veil their proudest story,
And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.
 The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest,
Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall broke and useless lie,

Cosmic collapse

The sun's 'golden urn' breaking and stars bathing in the ocean—Barbauld uses domestic and bodily language for universal destruction. Makes the unimaginable scale feel intimate.

Amidst the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion
And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean.
 But fix'd, O God! for-ever stands thy throne;
Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;
Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame,
Collected, or diffus'd is still the same.
He dwells within his own unfathom'd essence,
And fills all space with his unbounded presence.

Paradox of praise

The final turn argues that human language *debases* God. 'Silence is our least injurious praise'—this is radical for a hymn. Barbauld suggests the poem itself might be inadequate.

 But oh! our highest notes the theme debase,
And silence is our least injurious praise:
Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight controul,
Revere him in the stillness of the soul;
With silent duty meekly bend before him,

Silent devotion

The ending commands readers to stop singing and bow in silence. Unusual ending for a hymn—it inverts the genre's purpose (communal vocal praise) into private, wordless reverence.

And deep within your inmost hearts adore him.
Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

Barbauld's Theological Argument: Power Through Impermanence

This hymn is structured as a proof of God's absolute sovereignty, but not in the way readers might expect. Barbauld doesn't argue that God's power lies in creation's permanence—she argues the opposite. The poem moves from praising God's creative mastery (lines 1-36) to insisting that creation's inevitable destruction is *also* evidence of divine supremacy (lines 39-52). This is theodicy dressed as cosmology: if God made the world and can unmake it, his power is unquestionable.

CONTEXT Barbauld wrote this in the 1770s-80s as part of her *Poems* and later *Lessons for Children*. She was a dissenting Protestant minister's daughter educated in theology and natural philosophy. The poem reflects Enlightenment-era attempts to reconcile faith with scientific understanding—the 'elemental strife' God calms is literally the chaos of matter before order.

Notice how the language shifts at line 39. The first half uses sensory, almost erotic imagery: the sun as a bridegroom, earth dressed and caressed by water. Then suddenly: 'Yet this fair world...must pass away.' The beauty Barbauld just described becomes *temporary*, which paradoxically reinforces God's permanence. Creation's expiration date is the point.

The Radical Ending: When a Hymn Stops Singing

Most hymns end by calling the congregation to louder praise. Barbauld ends by commanding silence. Lines 53-60 perform an argument about language itself: human words, even the 'highest notes,' cannot adequately represent God. Therefore, the proper response is not to sing louder but to 'revere him in the stillness of the soul.'

This is a stunning generic move. Barbauld takes the form designed for communal vocal worship and turns it inward, toward private contemplation and wordlessness. She's saying: the poem you just read has done its job by proving its own inadequacy. The real devotion happens after the poem ends, in silence.

This reflects both Romantic-era skepticism about language's power *and* dissenting Protestant emphasis on inner conviction over outward ritual. Barbauld doesn't reject the hymn form—she completes it by showing where hymns must fail.