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Light fantastic, and elegantly free, 

 Next FLORA, blue-ey'd goddess, jocund, see, 

 In snow-white vesture, half-pellucid, drest, 

 Through whose thin folds, by Zephyrus carest, 

 A form celestial presses to the sight 

 In graceful symmetry. As Venus bright 

 She moves, that lively goddess of desire ! 

 But looks the vestal maid to check the fire, 

 And breathes the rapturous delight of sense, 

 And smiles with beaming grace of innocence. 

 She weaves her varied wreath 

 In artless, sweet simplicity, 

 While every flower her feet beneath 

 Springs upward to felicity, 

 Happy if pluck'd by Flora's hand, 

 Their several tints, by skill when wrought, 

 Of sweets will form a blooming band ; 

 A garland to the sage she brought. 



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Then nut-brown CERES, as she walks along, 

 Trilling in rustic phrase her ev'ning song, 

 When from the plenteous harvest she returns, 

 Bearing the yellow wealth which labour earns, 

 Quick from the summit of the hill she spies 

 The honour'd bust, and soon a wreath she ties, 

 A golden chaplet, choice reward of heaven! 

 Unfading crown, to mortals rarely given, 

 And hastes away to join the lovely pair, 

 And pay with gratitude her homage there. 

 By the sparkling of her eye, 

 Of the darkest hazel hue ; 

 By her forehead arched high, 

 And tawny freckles not a few, 

 The village maid is clearly seen, 

 Flush'd in ruddy glow of health, 

 Beauteous goddess of the plain, 

 Fruitful source of all our wealth. 



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