And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed

From flow'rs and scented flame, that fed

Her charmed life-for none had e'er

Beheld her taste of mortal fare,

Nor ever in aught earthly dip,

But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.
Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell,
The' Enchantress now begins her spell,
Thus singing as she winds and weaves
In mystic form the glittering leaves:-

I know where the winged visions dwell
That around the night-bed play;

I know each herb and flow'ret's bell,

Where they hide their wings by day.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.