Or glist'ning in the morning dew:
Whate'er is beautiful or fair,
Is but thine own reflection there.
2And when the radiant orb of light
Hath tipped the mountain tops with gold
Smote with the blaze, my weary sight
Shrinks from the wonders I behold;
That ray of glory, bright and fair,
Is but thy living shadow there.
3Thine is the silent noon of night,