The fountains serenade the flowers,
Upon their silver lute —
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake — in beauty rise!
‘ Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower.
The day we dedicate to care —
To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given —
The moonlight on the tree —
And all the bliss of earth and heaven —
Are mingled, love, in thee.
Then, lady, wake — in beauty rise!
‘ Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower!