How sweet is Luna’s gentle light
Which sleeps upon yon valley’s side,
Which silvers o’er yon mountains’ height,
And sparkles in the river’s tide.
But cold the silvery lustre plays,
And dewy damps the clouds distill
No genial warmth inspires her rays,
With life and joy the world to fill.
Roused by her beam no flowers expand
No birds attune their morning lay,
No cattle crop the smiling land,
Or fish in azure waters play.
Ah such to faithful ardent love
Is friendship’s mild but cold return,
Vain as the wreaths by memory wove,
Which seek some loved, lamented urn.
Amanda, must thy faithful swain,
This cold return alone receive,
To soothe his woes, alas! how vain —
It wakens hope but to deceive.
Let love, like Phoebus, warmer ray.
Awake sweet joy’s ambrosial flowers,
And gild with light secure as gay,
The lapse of life’s meridian hours.