And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,

Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak;

Sweet bird, that, shunn'st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among,

I woo, to hear thy even-song;

And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way;

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.