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 Creep, conscious, to their secret rests; Nature to thee does reverence pay, Ill omens and ill sights remove out of thy way. At thy appearance, Grief itself is said To shake his wings and rouse his head: 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. Encouraged at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. Even Lust, the master of a hardened face, Blushes, if thou be’st in the place, To darkness’ curtain he retires, In sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires. When, goddess, thou lift’st up thy wakened head Out of the morning’s purple bed, Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all thy joyful world salutes the rising day. The ghosts and monster-spirits that did presume A body’s privilege to assume, Vanish again invisibly, And bodies gain again their visibility. All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes, Is but thy several liveries: 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 Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. The violet, Spring’s little infant, stands Girt in the purple swaddling-bands; On the fair tulip thou dost dote, Thou cloth’st it in a gay and parti-coloured coat. With flames condensed thou dost thy 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 couldst thy hand withhold 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. But few, ah, wondrous few there be Who do not gold prefer, O goddess, even 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, And with thy living streams through the close channels slide.