| |
| FIRST born of chaos, who so fair didst come | |
| From the old Negro’s darksome womb! | |
| Which when it saw the lovely child, | |
| The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smil’d. | |
| |
| Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, | 5 |
| But ever ebb, and ever flow; | |
| Thou golden shower of a true Jove, | |
| Who does in thee descend, and Heav’n to earth make Love! | |
| |
| Hail active nature’s watchful life and health! | |
| Her joy, her ornament, and wealth! | 10 |
| Hail to thy husband heat, and thee! | |
| Thou the world’s beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he! | |
| |
| Say from what golden quivers of the sky, | |
| Do all thy wingèd arrows fly? | |
| Swiftness and power by birth are thine: | 15 |
| From thy great sire they came, thy sire the word divine. | |
| |
| ’Tis, I believe, this archery to show, | |
| That so much cost in colours thou, | |
| And skill in painting dost bestow, | |
| Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow. | 20 |
| |
| Swift as light thoughts their empty career run, | |
| Thy race is finished, when begun, | |
| Let a post-angel start with thee, | |
| And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he: | |
| |
| Thou in the moon’s bright chariot proud and gay, | 25 |
| Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; | |
| And all the year dost with thee bring | |
| Of thousand flow’ry lights thine own nocturnal spring. | |
| |
| Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above | |
| The sun’s gilt tent for ever move, | 30 |
| And still as thou in pomp dost go | |
| The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. | |
| |
| Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn | |
| The humble glow-worms to adorn, | |
| And with those living spangles gild, | 35 |
| (O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. | |
| |
| Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, | |
| And sleep, the lazy owl of night; | |
| Asham’d and fearful to appear | |
| They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. | 40 |
| |
| With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm, | |
| Of painted dreams, a busy swarm, | |
| At the first opening of thine eye, | |
| The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly. | |
| |
| The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts | 45 |
| Creep conscious to their secret rests: | |
| Nature to thee does reverence pay, | |
| Ill omens, and ill sights removes out of thy way. | |
| |
| At thy appearance, grief itself is said, | |
| To shake his wings, and rouse his head. | 50 |
| And cloudy care has often took | |
| A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look. | |
| |
| At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; | |
| Thy sunshine melts away his cold. | |
| Encourag’d at the sight of thee, | 55 |
| To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. | |
| |
| Even lust the master of a hardened face, | |
| Blushes if thou beest in the place, | |
| To darkness’ curtains he retires, | |
| In sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires. | 60 |
| |
| When, Goddess, thou liftest up thy wakened head, | |
| Out of the morning’s purple bed, | |
| Thy choir of birds about thee play, | |
| And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. | |
| |
| The ghosts, and monster spirits, that did presume | 65 |
| A body’s priv’lege to assume, | |
| Vanish again invisibly, | |
| And bodies gain agen their visibility. | |
| |
| All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes | |
| Is but thy sev’ral liveries, | 70 |
| Thou the rich dye on them bestow’st, | |
| Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go’st. | |
| |
| A crimson garment in the rose thou wear’st; | |
| A crown of studded gold thou bear’st, | |
| The virgin lilies in their white, | 75 |
| Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. | |
| |
| The violet, spring’s little infant, stands, | |
| Girt in thy purple swadling-bands: | |
| On the fair tulip them dost dote; | |
| Thou cloth’st it in a gay and party-colour’d coat. | 80 |
| |
| With flame condensed thou dost the jewels fix, | |
| And solid colours in it mix: | |
| Flora herself envies to see | |
| Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. | |
| |
| Ah, Goddess! would thou could’st thy hand withhold, | 85 |
| And be less liberal to gold; | |
| Didst thou less value to it give, | |
| Of how much care, alas, might’st thou poor man relieve! | |
| |
| To me the sun is more delightful far, | |
| And all fair days much fairer are. | 90 |
| But few, ah wondrous few there be, | |
| Who do not gold prefer, O Goddess, ev’n to thee. | |
| |
| Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea, | |
| Which open all their pores to thee; | |
| Like a clear river thou dost glide, | 95 |
| And with thy living stream through the close channels slide. | |
| |
| But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, | |
| Gently thy source the land o’erflows; | |
| Takes there possession, and does make, | |
| Of colours mingled, light, a thick and standing lake. | 100 |
| |
| But the vast ocean of unbounded day | |
| In th’ empyrean heaven does stay. | |
| Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below | |
| From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow. | |
| |
