Than all your hard, high-sounding words,
That still my fancy fetter.
The waves will tell me how to play
That waltz of Weber’s rightly;
And I shall learn, from every spray,
To dance, with grace and lightly.
Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird,
I’ll read no more this morning;
The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows!
I’m off—your sermons scorning!