Were Sunday. And some melancholy Bard
Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:—
"Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here.
Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill,
Unseen—let the majestic Dahlia
Glitter, an Empress, in her blazonry
Of beauty; let the stately Lily shine,
As snow-white as the breast of the proud Swan,
Sailing upon the blue lake silently,
That lifts her tall neck higher, as she views