It seems like noon, so bright the lustre shed
On the damp forest by the moon's white glow.
The breeze scarce moves yon oak tree to and fro,
That mid a thousand others rears its head.

O'er Zempoala, on an azure bed,
The evening star rests just above the snow,
And dimly in the fields the brooklet's flow
Shows like a silver ribbon far outspread.

The heavens shine; the hoophoe's note of pain
Sounds on the mountain, and the echoes send
Its wail across the broad plains plaintively.
Phyllis, come follow me, for I would fain
Enjoy this night; shut up the cot, my friend;
Upon the hillside I will wait for thee.