I. _Song._
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ook, Nymphs and Shepherds, look!What sudden blaze of majestyIs that which we from hence descry,Too divine to be mistook?This, this is she 5To whom our vows and wishes bend:Here our solemn search hath end.Fame, that her high worth to raiseSeemed erst so lavish and profuse,We may justly now accuse 10Of detraction from her praise:Less than half we find expressed;Envy bid conceal the rest. Mark what radiant state she spreads,In circle round her shining throne 15Shooting her beams like silver threads:This, this is she alone,Sitting like a goddess brightIn the centre of her light. Might she the wise Latona be, 20Or the towered Cybele,Mother of a hundred gods?Juno dares not give her odds:Who had thought this clime had heldA deity so unparalleled? 25 As they come forward, the Genius of the Wood appears,and, turning toward them, speaks. _Gen._ Stay, gentle Swains, for, though in this disguise,I see bright honor sparkle through your eyes;Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprungOf that renowned flood, so often sung,Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice, 30Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse;And ye, the breathing roses of the wood,Fair silver-buskined Nymphs, as great and good.I know this quest of yours and free intentWas all in honor and devotion meant 35To the great mistress of yon princely shrine,Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,And with all helpful service will complyTo further this night's glad solemnity,And lead ye where ye may more near behold 40What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;Which I full oft, amidst those shades alone,Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon.For know, by lot from Jove, I am the PowerOf this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, 45To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the groveWith ringlets quaint and wanton windings wove;And all my plants I save from nightly illOf noisome winds and blasting vapors chill;And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, 50And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites,Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites.When evening gray doth rise, I fetch my roundOver the mount, and all this hallowed ground; 55And early, ere the odorous breath of mornAwakes the slumbering leaves, or tasselled hornShakes the high thicket, haste I all about,Number my ranks, and visit every sproutWith puissant words and murmurs made to bless. 60But else, in deep of night, when drowsinessHath locked up mortal sense, then listen ITo the celestial Sirens' harmony,That sit upon the nine infolded spheres,And sing to those that hold the vital shears, 65And turn the adamantine spindle roundOn which the fate of gods and men is wound.Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,To lull the daughters of Necessity,And keep unsteady Nature to her law, 70And the low world in measured motion drawAfter the heavenly tune, which none can hearOf human mould with gross unpurged ear.And yet such music worthiest were to blazeThe peerless height of her immortal praise 75Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,If my inferior hand or voice could hitInimitable sounds. Yet, as we go,Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can showI will assay, her worth to celebrate, 80And so attend ye toward her glittering state;Where ye may all, that are of noble stem,Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.
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