Page:The Midsummer Night.djvu/28

 Of moths—to woo around me cool soft airs,

And shade mine eyes from Cynthia's glancing ray.

Pour, Nightingale,

Thy tenderest wail,

Rise, mists, and veil

Our Fairy Queen.

Flowers, bow your head,

And perfume shed

Around the bed

Of our sweet Queen.

Winds, hushed be;

Oh, Linden-tree,

Wave silently

Above our Queen.

'Tis vain! sleep will not rest upon mine eyes,—

Some mortal sure is lurking near, unseen.