That constant friend,[192] prince of the upper main,
Was scarce molested[193] from the rosy dawn
Until he rounded o’er the distant hills—
When there forth swung (as he revolving swells)
Promiscuous clouds across his fiery way
And spread, like beacon-fires, the closing day.
Thus advantageous ’neath umbrageous trees,
Which rustled in the June-time fragrant breeze,
Th’ aspiring peasantry as blithe as gay
Enjoy the intervals of making hay,—