The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—
Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!
And often at the dewy morn,
Just when the earliest ray,
That from the chariot of the sun,
Betokened coming day—
I’d hie me to my glad retreat,
To that old elm I’d stray,
And by that rude and rustic seat,
I’d kneel me down and pray.