Ye nymphs of Albion’s beauty-blooming isle,
whose brows have worn the wreath of luckless love,
is there a pleasure like the pensive mood,
whose magic softness soothes the lovesick soul?
O speak! the melancholy joy, to melt
at Melody’s assuasive sounds, to bend
the silent step along the midnight mead,
charmed by the accents of the youth you love,
and pour your sorrows to the pitying moon.
Wrapt close from harm,
Mid’st Night’s deep-folding gloom,
O Love, support my steps,
Thy wond’rous power assume.
When the bright morning ray
First lights the opening skies,
Let me my dawning joy
Behold in Damon’s eyes.
Thus young Emira, beauteous as the spring,
when from her violet woven couch awaked
she first leads on the happy year,
her soft wishes breathed,
when the fond youth,
active as light and fresh as early dawn,
she saw descending from the mountain’s side,
his presence filled with joy the happy maid;
with words and looks of love
her soft desire conveyed.