O'er faded heath-flowers spun, or thorny furze, The filmy Gossamer is lightly spread; Waving in every sighing air that stirs, As Fairy fingers had entwined the thread: A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew Spangle the texture of the fairy loom, As if soft Sylphs, lamenting as they flew, Had wept departed Summer's transient bloom: But the wind rises, and the turf receives The glittering web: -- So, evanescent, fade Bright views that Youth with sanguine heart believes: So vanish schemes of bliss, by Fancy made; Which, fragile as the fleeting dews of morn, Leave but the wither'd heath, and barren thorn!