In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,
The violet’s azure eye was closed;
The balmy, odor-laden air
Scarce stirred beneath its burden rare,
Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,
And on its harp sweet music make;
The list’ning waves would catch the lay,
With silver lutes so sweet they’d play
That e’en the peerless nightingale,
Warbling within some quiet vale,