The fountains serenade the flowers,
  Upon their silver lute—
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
  The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
  Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
  And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!
  'Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
  To light thee to thy bower.
The day we dedicate to care—
  To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
  In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given—
  The moonlight on the tree—
And all the bliss of earth and heaven—
  Are mingled, love, in thee.
Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!
  'Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
  To light thee to thy bower!