And lead the twinkling glories of the night;
The moon must rise in silver o’er the shades,
Stream thro’ your pen, and glance along the meads;
While Zephyr softly whispers in the lines,
And pearly dew in bright description shines;
The little warblers to the trees repair,
Sing in their sleep, and dream away their care;
While closing flowrets nod their painted heads,
And fold themselves to rest upon their rosy beds.
But if Aurora’s fingers stain the lay,