21 
So dream-like the reflection thrown, 
That feelings of a deeper tone, 
As on the scene we gaze, will start, 
Wildly tumultuous to the heart. 
In freshness steeped, the balm-fraught breeze, 
Sweeps o’er the closing flowers; 
And swells like music through the trees, 
Sighing of by-gone hours; 
E’en in its fragrance there’s a spell, 
The soul must own, but cannot tell, 
And in its murmurs soft and bland, 
Seem whispers from the spirit-land. 
The laden bee, and chirping bird, 
Now flitting to repose, 
With buzzing insects, ever heard 
At evening’s dewy close — 
