Classic Poem

Sweet moon-light, by whose silvery beam
So many sons of mirth steal out to stray,
By hill or vale, or gently-murmuring stream,
Chasing with lutes the tedious night away.

To thee, sweet moon-light! while the zephyrs bear
My sighs from this sequester'd shady grove,
To thee I turn, for oh! thou art as fair,
As bright, and as inconstant as my love.