115 
Wake, mountain breeze ! why tints in time of need 
Fold’st thou in languid listlessness thy wings ? 
Now, when broad noon o’er hill, and dale, and mead, 
With conscious might his beamy standard flings. 
Ye murmuring streamlets, that were wont to make 
Music, how meet for summer’s burning hour ! 
Ah! why, perfidious, do ye now forsake 
Your pebbly beds?—ye, who did tempt the flower, 
With promise bland, to ope its golden eye 
Upon your shelving marge, and leave it thus to die ! 
From you, ye false ones, to the sylvan realm 
I turn my steps; and see ! yon glorious elm 
Proffers so close a shade, that e’en the dew 
(As if cool morn still o’er the green-sward threw 
Her sheltering veil) within the chalic’d flower 
Lies safe, unconscious of the noon-tide hour. 
Here, then, where scarce a straggling beam invades 
The leafy twilight,—here, where Eve’s soft shades 
Seem stealing on mid-day, embower’d I’ll lie 
Till Phoebus’ steeds shall gain the western sky; 
And thoughts, like lights and shadows o’er the grass, 
As bright as transient, o’er my mind shall pass : 
Sweet summer-moods, — a visionary throng, 
To which fond Fancy’s fairest dreams belong. 
