By rosy light so tinged. Thy hills and glades

Look mellow in the distance, nor invades

That bright domain, one sad unpleasing scene;

No shameful blot that master piece degrades:

Yes—cheerful Memory! ’tis true, I ween,

That all thy fairy land looks beautiful and green.

XII.

Come forth from thy concealment, silver Moon!

Come, lend thy cheering influence to the heart,

And ride in beauty to thy highest noon!