Page:Home; or, The unlost paradise (IA homeorunlostpara00palm).pdf/43

 The groves, but now so still, grow vocal, and pour forth From thousand tuneful throats such melodies As might e'en Dulness, drowsy maid, herself Awake to ecstasy. June's unmown fields Stand tremulous, all wet with silvery dew, Night's grateful benison. The clouds that hung Like parting curtains when the day awoke, Transfigured, glow as dipped in Tyrian dyes Of hue celestial—ruby, jasper, gold. The chariot of the King of Day they seem, In which, with pomp ascending o'er the heights, He climbs the noonward path. The wreathing mists That hide, and yet reveal, the stream that winds Along the quiet valley, slowly lift, Like beauty's veil, and show the grace beneath. The voice of flocks and herds that hasten forth Eager to taste the pasture blend confused, Yet please the listening ear. The flowery train, With which bright Summer loves at early dawn Her retinue to fill, spread o'er the fields,