Come, holy hour, to inspiration given;
I love thy gentle dews, thy silver light,
When doubtful shadows veil the face of Heaven,
And silence rests upon the breast of night;
Save when at intervals she startled flies,
Waked by some magic lute, or thrilling lay,
Till the soft sounds regain their native skies,
And melody's sweet notes have died away.
Nor less thy balmy, perfumed breath I hail,
Which scarce th' embowering foliage seems to move,
And love to catch, as dies the rustling gale,
The whispered vow, or sigh of restless love.