Proserpine and Midas

The Hours have oped the palace of the dawnAnd through the Eastern gates of Heaven, AuroraComes 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 cockHalloos most loudly to his distant mates.But who are these we see? these are not men,Divine of form & splendidly arrayed,They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan,Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns?And who is he whose crown of gold & harpAre attributes of high Apollo?