The sportive sylphs that course the air,

Unseen on wings that twilight weaves,

Around the opening rose repair,

And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,

They catch the ruddy beams of day,

And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,

Their blushing favorite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,

From floating clouds and falling showers—

They rob Aurora's locks of light

To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking Rose,

Becomes a token fit to tell,

Of things that words can ne'er disclose,

And nought but this reveal so well.

Then take my flower, and let its leaves

Beside thy heart be cherished near,

While that confiding heart receives

The thought it whispers to thine ear!