And let the crispèd crescent shine
Upon my eyelids while I sleep,
And soothe me with her beams benign.
From far-away there streams the singing
Of the mellifluent nightingale,—
Surely if goblins hear her lay,
They shall not o'er my peace prevail.
Now quench my silver lamp, prythee,
And bid the harpers harp that tune
Fairies which haunt the meadowlands