Loose now thy flaming pinions on the West,
Vega, thou heavenly lamp of my desire!
Now burns the sun upon its crimson pyre,
Based on the windless Islands of the Blest;
The mountains now are purple to the crest.
Oh! crown the dying sunset with thy fire,
And stir the sleeping music of the Lyre
To ardencies of silvery unrest!

Aye! with thy quiring charm the vacant night!
But in my heart are chords that one alone
Can move to gracious harmonies untold-
Musing on her, I gaze beyond thy light,
Until my soul seems filled with harps that moan.
Strung by the seraphs with her hair of gold.