IX.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread Its flowery bosom to the noon-day beam, Where many a rose-bud rears its blushing head, And herbs, for food, with future plenty teem. Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream, Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul: He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll, When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole.