Hues of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible,
Around his path are taught to swell;—
Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing;—
Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream