To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, And sing to those that hold the vital shears, On which the fate of Gods and Men is wound. And keep unsteady Nature to her law, Whate'er the skill of lesser Gods can show, II. SONG. O'er the smooth enamel'd green Where no print of step hath been, Follow me, as I sing And touch the warbled string, Under the shady roof Of branching elm star proof. Follow me; I will bring you where she sits, Clad in splendour as befits Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen. III. SONG. Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no more By sandy Ladon's lilied banks; On old Lycæus, or Cyllene hoar, Trip no more in twilight ranks; Through Erymanth your loss deplore, A better soil shall give ye thanks. Bring your flocks, and live with us; To serve the Lady of this place. Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were, Yet Syrinx well might wait on her. Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen. |