It seemed like a fairy enchantment
Inviting to feasts down below,
Where grottoes and caverns of beauty
Illumine the flowers that grow
To charm the nymphs of the water,
And beguile all the sylvan elves
To the table of old Oceanus,
Where guests ever help themselves.
Some spirit seemed calling me sweetly,
Inviting me then to partake
Of the fanciful pleasures reflected
Far down in the clear, placid lake.
O, beautiful scene of reflection!
So perfect, so grand, and so pure,
In my mind that mirror enchantment
To the end of my days must endure.
MORNING FLOWERS.
The flowers all wash their faces fair
With the dews of the smiling morn,
Then turn to greet the god of the air
As his light in the east is born.
They call th' breeze from th' slumb'ring west
And a censer place in his hand,
Then mingle perfumes, choicest, best,
To waft o'er the festive land.
The flower of th' heart may lave in deeds
That refresh the worthy poor,
And th' soul's perfume is that which feeds
The hungry, weak, and sore.
There's food for thought in every leaf
That spring unfolds to pleasure's eye;
There's wisdom in the falling drop
That had its birth in yonder sky.
The breeze that fans the fevered brow,
Or gives new vigor to frail man,
Is but the breath of the Divine
Sent to fulfill benignant plan.