Proserpine and Midas

The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn

And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora

Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds,

Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep.

She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair,

Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze,

Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin;

The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold,

The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe c**k

Halloos most loudly to his distant mates.

But who are these we see? these are not men,

Divine of form & splendidly arrayed,

They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan,

Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns?

And who is he whose crown of gold & harp

Are attributes of high Apollo?