I am not disposed to court the powers of this poet-made god—except on a sultry summer’s day, when not a breath of air is in motion; at such a moment one might exclaim:—
Oh, breeze, where sleep’st thou? Come, oh come,
This languor of my frame dispel;
Arise, thy own loved harp is dumb;
Arise, and bid thy chorus swell.
Stop not, but breathe with fresh’ning power5
O’er full-blown roses in your way;
Wave the laburnum’s pendent flower;—
Yet stop not ’midst their sweets to play.
Sweep o’er the hay-field and the grove;
Thy own harp waits thee, come along;10
Whose soft vibrations whisper love,
And fancied choirs of heavenly song.
Thanks, charming zephyr.—Hark! That tone!
Be true, sweet harp; hush all but thee;
Perform thy task untouch’d, alone,15
And pour thy tide of harmony.