html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }You of the Guard make way! and you that keepe
The Presence warme, and quiet whilst you sleep,
Permit me passe! and then (if any where
Imploy'd) you Angels that are busi'st here,
And are the strongest Guard, although unseene,
Conduct me neere the Chamber of the Queene!
Where with such reverence as Hermits use
At richest Shrines, I may present my Muse:
Awake! salute, and satisfie thy sight,
Not with the fainting Sun's, but thine owne Light!
Let this Day breake from thine owne Silken spheare,
This Day, the birth, and Infant of the yeare!
Nor is there need of Purple, or of Lawne
To vest thee in, were but thy Curtaines drawne,
Men might securely say, that it is morne,
Thy Garments serve to hide, not to adorne!
Now she appeares, whilst ev'ry looke, and smile,
Dispences warmth, and beauty through our Isle:
Whilst from their wealthiest Caskets, Princes pay
Her gifts, as the glad tribute of this Day!
This Day; which Time shall owe to her, not Fate;
Because her early Eies, did it create.
But O! poore Poets! Where are you? why bring
You not your Goddesse now an Offering?
Who makes your Numbers Swift, when they mov'd slow,
And when they ebb'd, her influence made them flow.
Alas! I know your wealth: The Laurell bough,
Wreath'd into Circles, to adorne the Brow,
Is all you have: But goe; these strew, and spread,
In sacrifice, where ever shee shall tread,
And ere this day grow old, know you shall see
Each Leafe become a Sprig, each Sprig a Tree.