‘ Tis Now the Promised Hour.

The fountains serenade the flowers,

Upon their silver lute —

And, nestled in their leafy bowers,

The forest-birds are mute:

The bright and glittering hosts above

Unbar their golden gates,

While Nature holds her court of love,

And for her client waits.

Then, lady, wake — in beauty rise!

‘ Tis now the promised hour,

When torches kindle in the skies

To light thee to thy bower.

The day we dedicate to care —

To love the witching night;

For all that's beautiful and fair

In hours like these unite.

E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given —

The moonlight on the tree —

And all the bliss of earth and heaven —

Are mingled, love, in thee.

Then, lady, wake — in beauty rise!

‘ Tis now the promised hour,

When torches kindle in the skies

To light thee to thy bower!