Whence these sad strains, said she, of plaintive grief,
Which pierce the sleep-clos'd ear of peaceful rest?
Oft has the sick'ning mind here found relief,
Here quell'd the throbbing tumults of the breast:
Lift up thy loaden eyes to yon fair cloud,
Where moon-sprung  blends her beauteous dyes:
I lift them soon, and as I gazing stood,
The fleeting phantom in a moment flies;
Where beam'd the gilded arch of gaudy hue,
Frowns the dark lou'ring cloud all gloomy to the view.