Chorus.

Song.

Lo where the virgin veilëd in airy beams, All-holy Morn, in splendor awakening, Heav'n's gate hath unbarrèd, the golden Aerial lattices set open.

With music endeth night's prisoning terror, With flow'ry incense: Haste to salute the sun, That for the day's chase, like a huntsman, With flashing arms cometh o'er the mountain.

Inter se. That were a song for Artemis--I have heard Men thus salute the rising sun in spring-- --See, we have wreaths enough and garlands plenty To hide our lov'd Persephone from sight If she should come.--But think you she will come?-- If one might trust the heavens, it is a morn Promising happiness--'Tis like the day That brought us all our grief a year ago.--