Then, ere he sleeps, collects the moistened flower,
And bids soft leaves his glittering prize unfold,
And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower;
But in the morning shudders to behold
His shining treasure viewless as the dust;
So fade the world’s bright joys to cold and blank disgust.
Charlotte Smith.
I see a forest, dark, dim, deep, and dread,
Whose solemn shades no human foot or eye
Can penetrate; but now, oh see! a veil