Ah! sure are far less keen than those
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.
FRANCESCO LORENZINI.
“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”
Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour;