II.
Thy silver beak, which late from Southern flowers
Sipped God's good bounty, here, where green leaves meet
And shed their coolness through the long sweet hours
Of the bright noontide, shalt find blooms as sweet;
The juicy clover in the meadow-grass
Shall give thee honey from its crimson cells,
And thou shalt take, where curling eddies pass,
Thy supper in the dewy mountain-bells,
When the meek evening-wind amid the forest swells.