Now wand'ring by the Moon's pale Light,
Amidst the silent Shades of Night,
Where on the late deserted Plains
A pleasing Melancholy reigns;
Softly thro' the rustling Trees
Sobs the sweetly dying Breeze;
The Echo's catch the plaintive Sound,
And gentle Murmurs breathe around.
Now sing, my Friend, and let thy Strain
Recount the Arts of faithless Man:
Thy Notes, sweet  shall join,
And mix her soft Complaints with thine.