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Now Morning from her orient chamber came, And her first footsteps touch’d a verdant hill Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, Silv’ring the untainted gushes of its rill Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.