Shine, horned moon, upon our revels bright,
Shine through the lattice and dispel the night.
Shine where my fair Callistion doth rest
And make more golden still her gleaming breast.
We grudge thee not: that bright immortal eye
May all the deeds of eager lovers spy.
Thou, too, didst burn beneath Endymion's kiss
And now to her and me thou givest bliss.

God at last has heard our crying.
Through the ages past
We have sought him, groaning, sighing:
He has heard at last.

Man has mocked us through the ages,
Goaded to despair.
Poets, thinkers, soldiers, sages,
All have called us fair.

All have praised our lips and tresses,
Golden locks or black:
All have sought our love-caresses:
All have held us back.

All have checked our souls's aspiring:
All have dreaded this.
This has tired men, never tiring
Of the lips they kiss.

All have dreaded lest the morning

Though when from the bath he goes
Grace and beauty from him flows,
Though to win his body's prize
You would offer both your eyes,
Be not caught by charms like these,
Son of great Megistocles.

He is skilled in all love's wiles,
Many a suitor wins his smiles,
Naught of kindness there you'll see,
Nor of youth's simplicity.
Cruel is he though he's fair;
Fan not the flame; dear friend, beware.

Lo! this night the Lord descending
Comes on earth to dwell.
Evil's bitter reign is ending,
And the power of hell.

Neither Greek nor Roman poet,
Great-souled though they be,
Read God's secret.—Who shall know it?
Darkness, or the sea?

Greek and Roman, full of learning,
Full of strength and might,
Sought for God, their strong hearts yearning
Godward in the night.

Wise men worshipped God for ages;
Builded temples grand:
Graved their souls on deathless pages
Wrought in many a land.

'Twas midnight when I stole away,
The rain had wet me to the skin;
Fond lovers talk and sleep, men say,
Ah! when shall we begin?

Whilst Eastern wives connubial trophies raise,
By mounting dauntless on the funeral blaze;
Or tragic bards Euphresia's worth relate,
Her father rescu'd, and the tyrant's fate;
Domestic scenes your infant muse inspire,
And glowing nature trembles on your lyre.
No labour'd groves wave in your artless verse,
Or fancy'd joys your flowing lines rehearse.

If less than Auburn is your happy ville,
This all my view, that owns the poet's skill;
If Primrose glow'd with ev'ry virtue fraught,
Here Herbert is what Goldsmith's fancy wrought;

I burn, I burn: the light within thine eyes
Has lit a fire for Love's sacrifice.

There was Demo of Paphos; what wonder if I
From her arms to fair Demo of Samos did fly?
Then came Demo of Corinth; the joke seemed to pall,
Until Demo of Argos proved sweetest of all.
Sure 'tis fated — for is not my name Philodeme!
That some Demo to me ever lovely shall seem.

All men are equal in their birth,
Heirs of the earth and skies;
All men are equal, when that earth
Fades from their dying eyes.

All wait alike on him, whose pow'r
Upholds the life he gave; —
The sage within his star-lit tow'r, —
The savage in his cave.

'Tis man alone who diff'rence sees,
And speaks of high and low;
Who worships those and tramples these,
While the same path they go.

Ye great! renounce your earth-born pride,
Ye low! your shame and fear;
Live, as ye worship, side by side,

No lover once her charms might hold
Till he had paid the price in gold.
But now she shows a little grace
And seems less arrogant of face.
She seems, I say; for well I ween
No change has in her nature been.
So the cold snake for months will harmless hang,
But death still lurks within his cruel fang.