The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds, Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep. She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair, Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze{,} Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin; The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold, The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe cock Halloos most loudly to his distant mates. But who are these we see? these are not men, Divine of form & sple{n}didly arrayed, They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan, Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns? And who is he whose crown of gold & harp Are attributes of high Apollo?

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