Tis Now the Promised Hour. A Serenade.

A poem by George Pope Morris

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!

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