They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touch’d trees,
Where they swing in their cob-web hammocks high,
And rock’d about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest,
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillow’d on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumber’d there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in a scarp of the rock,