Poetry Archives

Thee too, modest tressèd maid,
  When thy fallen stars appear;
When in lawn of fire array’d
  Sov’reign of yon powder’d sphere;
To thee I chant at close of day,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Throned in sapphired ring supreme,
  Pregnant with celestial juice,
On silver wing thy diamond stream
  Gives what summer hours produce;
While view’d impearl’d earth’s rich inlay,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip,
  Breathed the flow’ry leaves among;
Draughts delicious wet my lip;
  Drown’d in nectar drunk my song;
While tuned to Philomel the lay,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Dew, that od’rous ointment yields,
  Sweets, that western winds disclose,
Bathing spring’s more purpled fields,
  Soft ’s the band that winds the rose;
While o’er thy myrtled lawns I stray
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.