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The prattling streams and zephyrs bland,
And fragrant flow’rs by zephyrs fannd,
The level lawns and buxom bow'rs,
Speak Nature and her works are ours.

What were all your fragrant bow'rs,
Splendid days, and happy hours,
Spring's verdant robe, fair Flora's blush,
And all the poets of the bush ?
What the paintings of the grove,
Rural music, mirth and love?
Life and ev'ry joy wou'd pall,
If Phæbus fhone not on you all.

We chant to Phæbus, king of day,
The morning and the evening lay.
But Pan, each fatyre, nymph and fawn,
Adore as laureat of the lawn;
From peevish March to joyous June
He keeps our restless souls in tune,
Without his oaten reed and song,
Phæbus, thy days wou'd seem too long.

Am I not he, who prefcious from on high,
Sends a long look thro' all futurity?
Am I not he, to whom alone belong
The powers of Med’cine, Melody and Song?

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Diffusely lib’ral, as divinely bright,
Eye of the universe and fire of light.

O’er cots and vales, and every shepherd fwain,
Inpeaceable pre-eminence I reign;
With pipe on plain, and nymph in fecret grove,
The day is music, and the night is love.
I bleft with these, nor envy nor desire
Thy gaudy chariot, or thy golden lyre.

Soon as the dawn dispels the dark,

Illustrious Phæbus 'gins t appear,
Proclaimed by the herald lark,

And ever-wakeful chanticleer,
The Persian pays his morning vow,
And all the turban'd easterns bow.

Soon as the evening shades advance,

And the gilt glow-worn glitters fair,
For rustic gambol, gibe and dance,

Fawns, nymphs and dryads all prepare,
Pan shall his swains from toil relieve,
And rule the revels of the eve.

In numbers as smooth as Callirhoe's stream,
Glide the filver-ton'd verse when Apollo's the theme;


While on his own mount Cypariflus is seen,
And Daphne preserves her immutable green.
We'll hail Hyperion with transport so long,
Th’inventor, the patron, and subject of fong.

While on the calm ocean the Halcyon shall breed,
And Syrinx shall sigh with her musical reed,
While fairies, and satyres, and fawns shall approve
The music, the mirth, and the life of the grove,
So long shall our Pan be than thee more divine,
For he shall be rising when thou shalt decline.

No more------To Pan and to his beauteous nymphs
I do adjudge the prize, as is most due.

Enter two Satyres, and crown Midas with

a pair of ass's ears

Such rural honours all the gods decree,
To those who sing like Pan, and judge like thee.

(Exeunt Omnes.

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