The lucid moon, in azure contrast fair, Shines thro' her silver drapery of clouds, While Silence sleeps upon the bosom'd air, And contemplation in the blue mist shrouds: This is the time, the Muses' mild delight, The pensive poet's favourite and theme, When Peace sits smiling on the throne of night, And nought disturbs his inspirative dream; Come, I will wander o'er the moorlands wild, While Seward's lays shall dwell upon my tongue, I'll chaunt her soothing straints to Cynthia mild, And charm the ear of silence with the song, While hov'ring angels shall arrest their way, And think they hear some kindred Seraph's lay.
