The Breezelet.
Cried Ciss to the breeze, as under the trees,
She lay at her ease, one day,
“From thy rovings cease, and a maiden to please,
Of thy doings, breeze, now say!”
“Be it so,” sang he; “from the west I be,
And wherever in glee I rove,
In lane or on lea, with the blooms I'm free,
And they—ever me—they love.
“The primrose that well may tremble when yell
The north winds fell, I press,
When lured by my spell, she peers from her cell,
With a smile the dell to bless.
“The violet meek in her velvet sleek,
In love with the freak, alway,
To my fancy weak appeareth to seek,
When I play with her cheek, more play.
“The daisy a-drest in her blood-laced vest,
In her deep green nest, I know,
When her lips I've prest, with a pleasure blest,
Is her little breast a-glow.
“The glad daffodil oft dances her fill,
As under the hill glide I,
And her pearly tears spill down into the rill,
That yet with a trill leaps by.
“See, a fairy bold, her vesture of gold,
The crocus unfold, in mirth,
And glories untold, where I've kist the mold
Illumine the cold, cold earth.”
Thus sang the breeze a maiden to please,
And Ciss in the trees, that night,
To rapture a prey sang Robin the lay,
When a kiss did the may requite.
