Ye elves! when spangled starlight gleams,
 That flit beneath the ray,
Till morning darts her magic beams
 And pale night hies away:
Ye know where springs each flow'ret rare,
 The sweetest seek for me:
I'll weave a chaplet rich and fair?
 My father! 'tis for thee!

The flow'rs, the trees, the birds appear
 To wait but on my call;
But he whose power has plac'd them here
 Is dearer far than all:
My thoughts with tender pleasure rest
 On each delight I see;
But all the love that swells in my breast,
 My father, is for thee!