Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley 
Proserpine and Midas 

The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn

And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora

Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds,

Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep.

She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair,

Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze[, ]

Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin;

The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold,

The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe cock

Halloos most loudly to his distant mates.

But who are these we see? these are not men,

Divine of form & sple[n]didly arrayed,

They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan,

Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns?

And who is he whose crown of gold & harp

Are attributes of high Apollo?