The light of day was fading in the west, The smoke no more from village chimneys curled, Nor voice of man, nor bark of dog was heard;
When she, obedient to Love’s rendezvous, Had reached the middle of a plain, than which No other more bewitching could be found.
The moon on every side her lustre shed, And all in robes of silver light arrayed The trees with which the place was garlanded.
The rustling boughs were murmuring to the wind, And, blending with the plaintive nightingale, A rivulet poured forth its sweet lament.
The sea shone in the distance, and the fields And groves; and slowly rising, one by one, The summits of the mountains were revealed.
In quiet shade the sombre valley lay, While all the little hills around were clothed With the soft lustre of the dewy moon.
The maiden kept the silent, lonely path, And gently passing o’er her face, she felt The motion of the perfume-laden breeze.
If she were happy, it were vain to ask; The scene delighted her, and the delight Her heart was promising, was greater still.
How swift your flight, O lovely hours serene! No other pleasure here below endures, Or lingers with us long, save hope alone.
The night began to change, and dark became The face of heaven, that was so beautiful, And all her pleasure now was turned to fear.