To be discharged: these thoughts, O Night! are thine;
From thee they came, like lovers’ secret sighs,
While others slept. So, Cynthia (poets feign),
In shadows veil’d, soft-sliding from her sphere,
Her shepherd cheer’d; of her enamour’d less,
Than I of thee.—And art thou still unsung,
Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing?
Immortal silence! where shall I begin?
Where end? or how steal music from the spheres,
To soothe their goddess? 550