And of those Demons that are found Or what (though rare) of later age But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Such notes, as, warbled to the string, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear; Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, With minute drops from off the eaves: Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep; And let some strange mysterious Dream And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, There let the pealing organ blow, And bring all heaven before mine eyes! ARCADES. Part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by some noble persons of her family; who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this Song. 1. SONG. LOOK, Nymphs and Shepherds, look, Is that which we from hence descry, This, this is she To whom our vows and wishes bend; Fame, that, her high worth to raise, Mark, what radiant state she spreads, Sitting like a goddess bright, Might she the wise Latona be, Mother of a hundred gods? Juno dares not give her odds: Who had thought this clime had held A deity so unparallel'd? As they come forward, the GENIUS of the wood appears, and turning towards them, speaks. GENIUS. STAY, gentle swains; for, though in this disguise, I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alphéus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskin'd Nymphs, as great and good; I know, this quest of yours, and free intent, Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine; And, with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity; And lead ye, where ye may more near behold What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold; Which I full oft, amidst these shades alone, Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon: For know, by lot from Jove, I am the Power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove. And all my plants I save from nightly ill Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill= |