You Meaner Beauties of the Night
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your voices understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;