His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling,
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose;
And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh
But woo thee still to slumber and to die.
Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there,
Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom,
But stealing o’er thee in the scented air,
And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb;
How may we deem, amidst their deep array,
That heaven and earth but flatter to betray?