Song to a Welsh Air (The moon in silent brightness)

The moon in silent brightness
Rides o'er the mountain brow,
The mist in fleecy whiteness
Has clad the vale below;
Above the woodbine bower
Dark waves our trysting-tree;
It is, it is the hour,
Oh! come, my love, to me.

The dews of night have wet me
While wandering lonelily;
Thy father's bands beset me, —
I only feared for thee.
I crept beneath thy tower,
I climbed the ivy-tree;
And blessed be the hour
That brings my love to me.

I left my chosen numbers
In yonder copse below;
Each warrior lightly slumbers,
His hand upon his bow:
From forth a tyrant's power
They wait to set thee free;
It is, it is the hour,
Oh! come, my love, to me.