My pen, charm’d with delights, scarce will steal on,

Lingering about the rapture which it knows

It dallies coyly with an idle song;

Too long the prospect which mine eye surveys,

How shall I mark each flower or stay to cull?

Through light, through shade, Perfection planes the ways

With sweet variety, that grows not dull;

Each new enchantment seems itself so fair,

That the last pride spoils his ancestor’s aims:

So justly tempered all, none can impair

Concent’ring beauty’s just imperial claims;

Each borrows new delight while it conveys,

And leads to harmony by various ways.

{5}

{5}

V.

Who hath not seen the morning breaking gaily,

The rivers leaping into dazzling light?

Who hath not view’d the eve declining palely,

Flouting her rosy stillness with black night?

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