So sweet—yet not like mirth—
I saw the Dryads gently gliding
Through shadowy groves of myrtle—
And Nereides their glances hiding,
And Venus with her turtle.
Alas! our brightest dreams deceive!
The morning rises, bright and sweet,
And every thing in nature waits
Thy fairy face and form to greet;
But they, alas! will wait in vain,