Where are billows ever filing—wiling there our hours away
Listening to the ocean’s thunder,
Gazing on the skies with wonder, wonder as each world we number
Poised in space above.
Lo! Diana in her glory rising o’er yon promontory,
Trace to earth the moon-beam’s flight,
Beauty to our planet lending, blending while they are descending
With the sombre shades of night.
Tune thy lute, love, touch it idly, that the tones may echo wildly
And sighs of softest passion move.