I flew, I snatch’d her from the rigid north,
Her native bed, on which bleak Boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the sun;[13] the sun 119
(As if the sun could envy) check’d his beam,
Denied his wonted succour; nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
Of lilies; fairest lilies, not so fair!
Queen lilies! and ye painted populace!
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives;
In morn and evening dew your beauties bathe,