The river-gods, in awful council stand:
Immingled gold amidst their oziers gleams,
Each pond'rous urn with studded lustre beams.
Presiding Dryads quit their subject woods;
Directing Naiads leave their silver floods,
Every bright guardian of th' extended clime,
Graces the solemn court with port sublime.
Round the august Divan, a mournful look
Bent the sad Queen—and brooding silence broke;
Ire mix'd with grief convolv'd her labouring breast,