Fly not yet; 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of ****** light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing
Oh ! stay, -oh ! stay,
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break it's links so soon.
Fly not yet; the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls' of mirth, began
To burn when night was near,
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindled till the night, returning
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh ! stay, -oh ! stay,-
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?