Blest be the hour of night,
When, his toils over,
The swain, with a heart so light,
Meets with his lover!
Sweet the moon gilds their path,
Arm in arm straying;
Clouds never rise in wrath,
Chiding their staying.
Gently they whisper low:
Unseen beside them,
Good angels watch, that no
Ill may betide them.
Silence is everywhere,
Save when the sighing
Is heard, of the breeze's fall,
Fitfully dying.
How the maid's bosom glows,
While her swain 's telling
The love, that 's been long, she knows,
In his heart swelling!
How, when his arms are thrown
Tenderly round her,
Fears she, in words to own
What he hath found her!
When the first peep of dawn
Warns them of parting,
And from each dewy lawn
Blythe birds are starting,
Fondly she hears her swain
Vow, though they sever,
Soon they shall meet again,
Mated for ever.