Of tinkling rills, which softly flow,
And busy bees, that hum around
  The flowers which on their borders grow,
That I, from life’s turmoil had strayed
  To spend an hour in solitude;
And where a sparkling fountain played,
  I laid me down, in pensive mood,
To ponder o’er the fleeting day
Of youth, that hies so fast away
In golden dreams which quickly fly,
Like tints that deck a Summer sky.

Soon Fancy, on her airy wing,
  Was sporting mid Elysian bowers,
Where flowers of sweetest odor spring,
And birds of golden plumage sing,
  And wanton thro’ the sylvan bowers. 
There lakelets sparkled in the glow,
  Wreathed round with flowers of many a hue,
And golden pebbles shone below
The wave that bore the swan of snow,
  Reflecting, in its mirror true,
  The flowers which o’er its surface grew,
  The tints of earth—­the hues of sky—­
  That in its limpid bosom lie. 
  And groups of happy children played
  Around the verge of each cascade;
  Or gambol’d o’er the flowery lea
  In wanton mirth and joyous glee;
Pursuing, o’er the sparkling lawn,
  The insect in its airy flight,
Which still eludes, but tempting on
  From flower to flower, with plumage bright,
  The hand that woos to stay its flight—­
  Till soaring high, on pinions wild
  It leaves the charm’d and tearful child.

One maid there was, divinely fair,
  Whose cheeks, beneath her peerless eyes,
Bloomed like the roses, rich and rare,
  That yield perfume to summer skies;
Her shining locks of silky hair
  Hung round her neck like grapes of gold,
  And o’er her snowy bosom roll’d,
Hiding the blush that mantled there.

The brightest of the fairy throng,
She led the dancing group along
Through tangled brakes and fretted bowers,
Where grew the richest, rarest flowers,
That wooed the bee to banquet there,
Or yielded sweets to Summer air. 
  But she who moved with elfin pace,
And taught the infant throng to play,
  Raised to heaven her cherub face,
While that bright celestial ray,
  Which halos the throne of glory round,
Illumed her azure, orient eye,
That seemed to penetrate the sky. 
  Bending her gaze upon the ground,
Her gentle bosom heaved a sigh,
  And anxious faces press around,
While pearls of pity dim each eye,
As tho’ they’d weep again to rest
The troubled spirit of that breast.

“Weep not for me!” the cherub said,
While o’er her seraph beauty played
A smile like evening’s parting beam,
That sparkles o’er the glassy stream,
Or lingers on a lucid lake—­
Whose dimpling wave the zephyrs break. 
“Far thro’ yon skies, where orient day
Is shedding his last lingering ray,
Bright angels beckon me away;—­
I go—­I go—­a last farewell!”
And as she spoke around her fell,
From heaven, a bright celestial ray,