THE moon in silent brightness Rides o'er the mountain brow, The mist in fleecy whiteness Has clad the vale below; Above the woodbine bow'r Dark waves our trysting-tree; It is, it is the hour, Oh come, my love, to me! The dews of night have wet me While wand'ring lonelily; Thy father's bands beset me -- I only fear'd for thee. I crept beneath thy tower, I climb'd the ivy tree; And blessed be the hour That brings my love to me. I left my chosen numbers In yonder copse below; Each warrior lightly slumbers, His hand upon his bow: From forth a tyrant's power They wait to set thee free; It is, it is the hour, -- Oh come, my love, to me! |