The grand nocturnal host;
His nourishment—the silv’ry draught,
While ’tis a cloudless sky;—
But lo! he turns and views, abaft,
Some striplings of dark dye.
And then a group, of murky hue,
Seem to conspire to mar
The radiant twinklers from his view,
And hide his favourite star.
All hope—awhile—now gone from him,