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This, this is Die alone,
Sitting like a goddefs bright,
In the centre of her light.
Might fhe the wife Latona be,
Or the tow'red Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods;
POEMS. 197
Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparallel'd?
AS THEY COME FORWARD, THE GENIUS OF THE
WOOD APPEARS, AND TURNING
TOWARD THEM, SPEAKS.
GENIUS.
Stay, gentle fwains, for though in this difguife,
I fee bright honour fparkle through your eyes;
Of famous Arcady ye are, and fprung
Of that renowned flood, fo often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by fecret iluice
Stole under feas to meet his Arethufe;
And ye, the breathing rofes of the wood,
Fair filver-bufkin'd nymphs as great and good,
I know this queft of yours, and free intent
Was all in honour and devotion meant
To the great miftrefs of yon princely flirine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful fervice will comply
To further this night's glad folemnity;