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  orning 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 & sple[n]didly  rrayed, 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?