Serenade

While my lady sleepeth,

The dark blue heaven is bright, --

Soft the moonbeam creepeth

Round her bower all night.

Thou gentle, gentle breeze!

While my lady slumbers,

Waft lightly through the trees

Echoes of my numbers,

Her dreaming ear to please.

Should ye, breathing numbers

That for her I weave,

Should ye break her slumbers,

All my soul would grieve.

Rise on the gentle breeze,

And gain her lattice' height

O'er yon poplar trees;

But be your echoes light

As hum of distant bees.

All the stars are glowing

In the gorgeous sky;

In the stream scarce flowing

Mimic lustres lie:

Blow, gentle, gentle breeze!

But bring no cloud to hide

Their dear resplendencies;

Nor chase from Zara's side

Dreams bright and pure as these.