With how sad steps,
O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,"How silently, and with how wan a face!"Where art thou?
Thou so often seen on
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow to-night his bugle horn.
Had
The power of Merlin,
Goddess! this should be:
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,
Should sally forth, to keep thee company,
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven.
But,
Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
