The Sportive Sylphs

The sportive sylphs that course the air,
Unseen on wings that twilight weaves,
Around the opening rose repair,
And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.
With sparkling cups of bubbles made,
They catch the ruddy beams of day,
And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,
Their blushing favourite to array.
They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers;
They rob Aurora's locks of light
To grace their own fair queen of flowers.
Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose
Becames a token fit to tell
Of things that words can ne'er disclose,
And naught but this reveal so well.
Then, take my flower, and let its leaves
Beside thy heart be cherish'd near,
While that confiding heart receives
The thought it whispers to thine ear.