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ZEPHYR AMONG THE FLOWERS. 



WHEN the bright-hair 'd Morn, 



With her dropping horn, 



Blows sweet on the mountain-side, 



Where the dale- queens lie, 



With a light foot, I 



O'er their green tiaras glide. 



I waken each flower 



In her grassy bower, 



But I do not dare not stay, 



For I must be gone 



To attend the Sun 



At the eastern gate of the day ! 



" Fare thee well ! farewell !" 



As I leave her cell, 



I can hear the young Rose sigh : 



And the Harebell too 



Bids me oft adieu ! 



With a tear in her dim blue eye. 



As pale as the snow 



Does the Lilly grow, 



When my wild feet near her rove, 



Yet she lets me sip 



Of her nectarious lip, 



As long and as deep as I love. 



To make me her prize, 



Pretty Primrose tries, 



Kissing and clasping my feet ; 



But Violets cling 



So fast to my wing, 



That my feathers are full of them yet ! 



Each flower of the lea 

 Has a bed for me, 

 But I will not cannot stay, 

 For I must be gone 

 To attend the Sun 

 At the Western gate of the day! 

 3 T 2 



