The moon on the midnight her splendor is pouring.
Wake, fairest, awake! from thy window now see,
Like a saint at his shrine, thy lover adoring.
'Come, beautiful, forth on thy balcony high,
While silver-toned music around thee is floating;
And yon shooting-star shall come down from the sky,
Like a slave at thy feet his homage devoting.
'Nay, venture not, dearest! lest over the air
Some spirits should chance to be wand'ring this even;
And, deeming thee some truant angel now there,