Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow,
Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n
For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand,
To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.—
The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill
Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms
She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip
Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart
170
Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View.