But the brave king departed from the place With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face; Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay. Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew, The twig straight glitter’d with a golden hue. He takes a stone, the stone was turn’d to gold: A clod he touches, and the crumbling mould Acknowledged soon the great transforming power, In weight and substance like a mass of ore: He pluck’d the corn, and straight his grasp appears Fill’d with a bending tuft of golden ears. An apple next he takes, and seems to hold The bright Hesperian vegetable gold: His hand he careless on a pillar lays, With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze; And, while he washes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Dane’s shower.