Serenade

Come, wander forth with me: the orange flowers
Breathe faintest perfume from the summer bowers.
Come, wander forth with me; the moon on high
Shines proudly in a flood of brilliancy;

Around her car each burning star
Gleams Like a beacon from afar.
The night wind scarce disturbs the sea

As it sighs forth so languidly,
Laden with sweetness like a bee;
And all is still, below, above,

Save murmurs of the turtle-dove
That murmurs ever of its love.
For now 'tis the hour, the balmy hour,

When the strains of love have chiefly power;
When the maid looks forth from her latticed bower,
With a gentle yielding smile.

Donning her mantle all the while.
Now the moon beams down on high
From her halo brilliantly,

By the dark clouds unencumbered
That once o'er her pale face slumbered:
Far from her mild rays flutters Folly,

For on them floats calm Melancholy; --
A passionless sadness without dread.
Like the thought of those we love, long dead;

Full of hope and chastened joy,
Heavenly, without earth's alloy.
Listen, dearest: all is quiet --
Slumbering the world's toll and riot;
And all is fair in earth and sky and sea.
Come, wander forth with me.