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No creeping flames your hives annoy,
You too, ye feather'd tribes of air,
Nor these the only ills you bear,
Long, long the drooping captive dwells
REV. J. WALTERS.
TO THE SPIRIT OF FRESHNESS.
The gentle Aura woo'd
Beside a dripping cave;
There saw thee born, as May
Unclosed her laughing eye;
Where sport thy humid steps, [pears,
Ambrosial essence, say?
Beneath the lively green
Of their full-shading leaves.
Nibbling, while stillness reigns,
Or dost thou hover o'er the hawthorn bloom,
His golden lids, and tunes
A soft preluding strain; Or art thou soaring mid the fleeced air To meet the dayspring, where the plume-wet lark
Pours sudden his shrill note
Beneath a dusky cloud?
From that deep central gloom,
Rests on the moon-tipp'd wood. Now, by a halo circled, sails along, As gleams with icicles his azure vest,
Now shivers on the trees,
And feebly sinks from sight. 'Tis cold! and lo! upon the whitening folds Of the dank mist that fills the hollow dell,
Chill Damp with drizzly locks
Glides in his lurid car, Where a lone fane o'er those broad rushes nods In slumberous torpor; save when flitting bat
Stirs the rank ivy brown
That clasps its oozing walls !
A form, half viewless, spreads
A fush purpureal round.
With vivid moisture glow,
The florets, opening, from their young cups dart The carmine blush, the yellow lustre clear:
And now entranced I drink
Thy breath in living balms !
Its odours, but it breathes
Mild shadowy power! whilst now thy tresses,
bathed In primrose tints, the snowdrop's coldness shed
On skyblue hyacinths,
While flows to Zephyr thy transparent robe,
How short thy vestal reign
Yes! if thou mix the saffron hues that stream
Of yonder orb that hangs
Or if thou love, along the lucent sod,
With all the mingled beams
Fleet as the shadow from the breded heaven
Within the gelid gloom
There, as its ambient arch with airy sweep
Pursue the turf that floats
And now, retreating to the breezy marge
The new-blown flowers that wake
Or gently on thine alabaster urn
That mid the crisped brook
Steeps its long-wreathed roots. While from the cave where first thine essence sprung,
[spars, Where the chaste Naiads ranged their glittering
Rills, trickling through the moss,
Purl o'er the pebbled floor. There sleep till eve; as now the tyrant heat Kindles, with rapid strides, the extensive lawn,
And e'en thy favourite haunt,
The verdurous oak, invades.
Though shrinking from the sun,
The sallow's stagnant shade. There sleep till eve; unless the spring-loved
showers, Pattering among the foliage, bid thee rise
To taste those transient blooms
That with the rainbow live.