But not our filmy pinion We scorch amid the blaze of day When noon-tide’s fiery-tressed minion Flashes the fervid ray. Aye from the sultry heat We to the cave retreat, O’ercanopied by huge roots intertwined With wildest texture, blackened o’er with age; Round them their mantles green the ivies bind, Beneath whose foliage pale, Fanned by the unfrequent gale, We shield us from the tyrant’s mid-day rage. IV. Thither while the murmuring throng Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song, By indolence and fancy brought, A youthful bard, “unknown to fame,” Woos the queen of solemn thought, And heaves the gentle mis’ry of a sigh, Gazing with tearful eye, As round our sandy grot appear Many a rudely sculptured name To pensive mem’ry dear! Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue We glance before his view: O’er his hushed soul our soothing witch’ries shed, And twine our faery garlands round his head. V. When evening’s dusky car Crowned with her dewy star Steals o’er the fading sky in shadowy flight; On leaves of aspen trees We tremble to the breeze, Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight. Or, haply at the visionary hour, Along our wild sequestered walk, We listen to th’ enamoured rustic’s talk; Heave with the heavings of the maiden’s breast, Where young-eyed loves have built their turtle nest; Or guide of soul-subduing power Th’ electric flash, that from the melting eye Darts the fond question and the soft reply. VI. Or thro’ the mystic ringlets of the vale We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank; Or, silent-sandalled, pay our defter court Circling the spirit of the western gale, Where, wearied with his flower-caressing sport, Supine he slumbers on a violet bank! Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam, By lonely Otter’s sleep-persuading stream; Or where his wave with loud unquiet song Dashed o’er the rocky channel froths along; Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest, The tall tree’s shadow sleeps upon his breast. VII. Hence! thou lingerer, light! Eve saddens into night. Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view The sombre hours, that round thee stand With down-cast eyes (a duteous band!), Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. Sorceress of the ebon throne! Thy power the Pixies own, When round thy raven brow Heaven’s lucent roses glow, And clouds, in wat’ry colours drest, Float in light drapery o’er thy sable vest; What time the pale moon sheds a softer ray, Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam: For ’mid the quiv’ring light ’tis ours to play, Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. VIII.