Ode to Cynthia

ISTER of Phœbus, gentle Queen, Of aspect mild and brow serene, Whose friendly beams by night appear The lonely traveller to cheer; Attractive Power, whose mighty sway The ocean's swelling waves obey, And, mounting upward, seem to raise A liquid altar to thy praise: Thee wither'd hags, at midnight hour, Invoke to their infernal bower. But I to no such horrid rite, Sweet Queen, implore thy sacred light, Nor seek, while all but lovers sleep, To rob the miser's treasur'd heap: Thy kindly beams alone impart To find the youth who stole my heart; And guide me, from thy silver throne. To steal his heart, or find my own.