When blushing like a bride from Hope's trim bower,
She leaps, awakened by the pattering shower.
Coleridge.
41. Autumn dark on the mountains; when gray mists rest on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. The leaves whirl with the wind, and strew the graves of the dead.
Ossian.
42. When the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear;
Disclose the long-expected flowers,
And wake the purple year.
The attic warbler pours her throat,