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R. T. H. GRIFFITH.
101
Where those happy peacocks dance,
And the silver streamlets glance,
And the clouds, enamoured, rest,
Like a crown, upon the crest
Of that hill that fainting lay
'Neath the burning summer ray.
While the freshening streams they shed
Glorify his woody head.
Bees, that round the lily throng,
Soothe us with their drowsy song;
Towards the lotus-bed they fly;
But the peacock, dancing by.
Spreads abroad his train so fair.
That they cling, deluded, there.
Oh, that breeze! his breath how cool!
He has fanned the shady pool:
He has danced with bending flowers,
And kissed them in the jasmine bowers;
Every sweetest plant has lent
All the riches of its scent,
And the cloud who loves him flings
Cooling drops upon his wings.
