134 THE POETRY OF FIO IVERS. 
That in these days your praises should be sung 
On many harps, which he has lately strung; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses, 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: 
So haply ween I rove in some far vale, 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 
Here are sweet-peas, on tiptoe for a flight: 
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things, 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 
What next ? a turf of evening primroses, 
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleeo. 
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap 
Of buds into ripe flowers. 
THE JASMINE. 
BY MOORE. 
’Twas midnight—through the lattice wreath’d 
With woodbine, many a perfume breathed 
From plants that wake when others sleep; 
From timid jasmine buds that keep 
Their odour to themselves all day ; 
But when the sunlight dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
Ta every breeze that roams about. 
