Volume II Part 6 (2/2)

Hail to thy husband heat, and thee!

Thou the world's beauteous bride, the l.u.s.ty bridegroom he!

IV.

Say from what golden quivers of the sky, Do all thy winged arrows fly?

Swiftness and power by birth are thine, From thy great fire they came, thy fire the word divine.

V.

'Tis I believe this archery to shew That so much cost in colours thou, And skill in painting dost bestow, Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heav'nly bow.

VI.

Swift as light, thoughts their empty career run, Thy race is finish'd, when begun; Let a Post-Angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shall reach as soon as he.

VII.

Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year doth with thee bring O thousand flowry lights, thine own nocturnal spring.

VIII.

Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above The sun's gilt tent for ever move, And still as thou in pomp dost go, The s.h.i.+ning pageants of the world attend thy show.

IX.

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble Glow-Worms to adorn, And with those living spangles gild, (O greatness without pride!) the blushes of the Field.

X.

Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy Owl of night; Asham'd and fearful to appear, They skreen their horrid shapes, with the black hemisphere.

XI.

With 'em there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm, Of painted dreams, a busy swarm, At the first opening of thine eye, The various cl.u.s.ters break, the antick atoms fly.

XII.

The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts, Creep conscious to their secret rests: Nature to thee doth reverence pay, Ill omens, and ill sights removes out of thy way.

XIII.

At thy appearance, grief itself is said, To shake his wings, and rouze his head; And cloudy care has often took A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

XIV.

At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; Thy sun-s.h.i.+ne melts away his cold: Encourag'd at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

XV.

Even l.u.s.t, the master of a harden'd face, Blushes if thou be'st in the place, To darkness' curtains he retires, In sympathizing nights he rolls his smoaky fires.

XVI.

When, G.o.ddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head, Out of the morning's purple bed, Thy choir of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

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