But should the sedulous murmur of tall trees
Struck by the breeze,
Or hum of busy wings that round her swarm,
Lull to light slumbers the soft-sinking maid —
Then, O ye wood-nymphs, and pipe-tuning Pan
Who watch in sylvan haunts o'er sleeping Innocence,
Drive each rude stranger hence;
Guard with a care like mine her sainted head!
Gay smiling Love shall prompt her golden dreams;
And, while with chaste desires her purpling bosom gleams,
The light-wing'd breezes shall that bosom fan!