Like spirits of a holier sphere —
Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
And I were blest if thou wert here.
The pale full moon, in silent pride,
O’er yon dark wood is rising now,
As lovely as when by thy side
I saw it shining on thy brow;
It lights the dew-drops of the grove
As hope’s bright smile lights beauty’s tear —
Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,