Ah! thou wilt not stoop:
Old Huron, haply, glistens on thy sky.
The chasing moon-beams, glancing on thy plumes,
Reveal thee now, a little beating blot,
Into the pale aurora fading.
There!—
Sinks gently back upon her flowery couch
The startled night:—tinkle the damp wood-vaults,
While slip the dew-pearls from their leafy curtain.
That last soft whispering note, how spirit-like!