THE THREE DEITIES. 201 



The clouds that spread their silken webs on high, 



The water's sheen, the azure of the sky: 



All things that sweetly glow, or brightly shine, 



At purple dawn of morn, or day's decline. 



She gives the insect host their varied stain, 



And calls the wild flowers out upon the plain. 



For her the queen of spring adorns her walks. 



Tints the green herbs, and binds upon their stalks 



Gems of the purest radiance, azure bells. 



And hyacinths, and pensive asphodels. 



The native wilds, the cultivated farms. 



Springtime and summer, with their glowing charms. 



And autumn, with his myriad hues, dispense 



Her favors in unbounded affluence. 



There 's not a flower that blossoms in the field. 



Or ruddy tint the twilight has revealed ; 



A gladdening beam upon the cheek of morn. 



Or sparkling wreath the mountain's brows have worn, 



That beauty has not reared to charm the soul, 



And bind it to the earth, as by divine control. 



Then Music comes — the second of the twain. 

 With warbling birds and echoes in her train, 

 Led on by zephyrs. In her hand she bears 

 A lute, with chords to charm away our cares. 

 She 's Beauty's sister-twin. The summer gales 

 Are her attendants, whom o'er hills and dales. 

 She sends to bear her tuneful melodies. 

 And harmonize them with the vocal breeze. 

 Her's are the songs of morn, the evening bell. 

 The voices borne from mountain, rock, and fell ; 

 The gentle whispers of the pebbly shore, 

 And murmurs of its more tumultuous roar. 



