A POEM.
207
So silent is the cessile air,
That every cry and call,
The hills and dales, the forest fair,
Again repeats them all.
That every cry and call,
The hills and dales, the forest fair,
Again repeats them all.
The rivers fresh, the callour streams,
O'er rocks can softly rin;
The water clear, like crystal streams,
And makes a pleasant din.
O'er rocks can softly rin;
The water clear, like crystal streams,
And makes a pleasant din.
The fields, and earthly superfice,
With verdure green is spread,
And naturally, but artifice,
In party-colours clad.
With verdure green is spread,
And naturally, but artifice,
In party-colours clad.
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,
Through Phœbus' fostering heat,
Refreshed with dew and silver showers,
Cast up an odour sweet.
Through Phœbus' fostering heat,
Refreshed with dew and silver showers,
Cast up an odour sweet.
The clogged busy bumming bees,
That never thinks to drown,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
Collects their liquor brown.
That never thinks to drown,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
Collects their liquor brown.
The sun, most like a speedy post,
With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of the heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends.
With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of the heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends.
