All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes,
Is but thy several liveries:
Thou the rich dye on them bestow’st,
Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go’st.
A crimson garment in the rose thou wear’st,
A crown of studded gold thou bear’st.
The virgin lilies in their white
Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.
The violet, Spring’s little infant, stands
Girt in the purple swaddling-bands;
On the fair tulip thou dost dote,
Thou cloth’st it in a gay and parti-coloured coat.
With flames condensed thou dost thy jewels fix,
And solid colours in it mix:
Flora herself envies to see
Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.
Ah goddess! would thou couldst thy hand withhold
And be less liberal to gold;
Didst thou less value to it give,
Of how much care (alas!) might’st thou poor man relieve.
To me the sun is more delightful far,
And all fair days much fairer are.
But few, ah, wondrous few there be
Who do not gold prefer, O goddess, even to thee!
Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea,
Which open all their pores to thee;
Like a clear river thou dost glide,
And with thy living streams through the close channels slide.
But where firm bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the land o’erflows;
Takes there possession, and does make,
Of colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing lake.
But the vast ocean of unbounded Day
In the Empyrean Heaven does stay.
Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below
From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.