O Moon! if e'er I joyed when thy soft light Danc'd to the murmurming rill on Lomond's wave, Or sighed for thy sweet presence some dark night, When thou wert hidden in thy monthly grave; If e'er, on wings which active fancy gave, I sought thy golden vale with dancing flight, Then, stretcht at ease in some sequestered cave, Gaz'd on thy lovely Nymphs with fond delight, Thy Nymphs with more than earthly beauty bright; If e'er thy beam, as Smyrna's shepherds tell, Soft as the gentle kiss of amorous maid On the closed eyes of young Endymion fell, That he might wake to clasp thee in the shade: Each night, while I recline within this cell, Guide hither, O sweet Moon, the maid I love so well. |