I.

    With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, Wide waves the morn her golden wing； With countless variegated beams The empurpled orient glows and gleams； A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds The mountain's soaring summit shrouds； Along the wave the blue mist creeps, The towering forest trees are stirred By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, And with the matin song of bird, The hum of early bee is heard, Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, The coming of the bright-eyed morn； And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, Along the wildwood paths she flits, Hieing from leafy bower to bower, Culling from each its bud and flower, Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, To weave them in her bridal wreath.

    Now, pausing in her way, to hear The lay of some wild warbler near, Repaying him, in mocking tone, With music sweeter than his own； Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, Her image in its waves to see, With its sweet, gurgled music blending, A song of tenfold melody； Now, chasing the gay butterfly, That o'er her pathway passed her by, With grace as careless, glee as wild, As though she were some thoughtless child；

    Now,seated on some wayside stone, With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, Insilent thoughtfulness, she seems To hold communion with her heart, Beguiling fancy with the dreams That from its Pure recesses start.