SEXTINE.
Soon after the hour when the night's sombre cheek blushes,
In the season of nests, in the advent of flowers,
I entered a thicket of ferns graceful, and rushes,
Not for the shadow, but the strange colour that flushes
And trembles on leaves without number, for hours,
While the Sun with Aurora disputes the dew-showers.
My blood in the transit tinged with red the green bowers,
For the tufts of the holly, and the stiff blades of the rushes,
And the thorns, and the brambles, rising upwards like towers,
Had laced a sharp barrier round the home of the flowers.
In the glade, when I came, oh, how deep were the blushes!
Flowers—flowers, quite a sea,—and a twilight that hushes!
A network harmonious, where, like music, light gushes
And mixes with shade o'er the dew's witching showers,
Diamond, white pearl, and the opal that flushes
In snow and in gold, and the ruby's deep blushes,
All shimmered, and then filt'ring from the cups of the flowers
Went to streak the green leaves with the rainbow's rich dowers,—
