What if the Gods their tributes brought,
To fill the box of fam’d Pandora;
Behold! with equal treasures fraught,
Thy precious casket — Eleanora!
More favour’d than that fatal Chest —
Not to this consecrated coffer,
By virtue, and by genius blest,
One gift shall vice or folly offer.
Phoebus, whose summer glory plays
Around the chariot of Aurora;
Now gilds with intellectual rays,
Thy sacred Chest, Oh Eleanora!
The Bird whose eye shuns vulgar light,
Unerring darts thro’ shades nocturnal;
Here charged to bend his secret flight,
With wisdom’s characters supernal.
Here shall the doves of Venus bring
The emblematic gifts of Flora;
And bid stern winter smile like spring,
To grace the Chest of Eleanora.
Lo! as her guardian fingers ope
The lid, each mystic leaf that covers;
Around th’ ideal buds, soft hope
Flutt’ring like vernal zephyr hovers!