Moon

THEE too, modest tressed maid,
   When thy fallen stars appear;
When in lawn of fire array'd
   Sov'reign of yon powder'd sphere;
To thee I chant at close of day,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Throned in sapphired ring supreme,
   Pregnant with celestial juice,
On silver wing thy diamond stream
   Gives what summer hours produce;
While view'd impearl'd earth's rich inlay,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip,
   Breathed the flow'ry leaves among;
Draughts delicious wet my lip;
   Drown'd in nectar drunk my song;
While tuned to Philomel the lay,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

Dew, that od'rous ointment yields,
   Sweets, that western winds disclose,
Bathing spring's more purpled fields,
   Soft 's the band that winds the rose;
While o'er thy myrtled lawns I stray
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.

by Henry Rowe

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