A
SONG
It
was
at
night
his
form
divine
,
Did
with
transplendent
beauty
shine
,
And
won
my
right
good
will
;
The
moon
did
cast
a
pleasing
ray
,
We
thought
it
sweeter
than
the
day
,
And
wander'd
to
the
hill
.
We
seem'd
to
tread
enchanted
ground
,
Where
fairies
keep
their
midnight
round
,
As
I
have
oft
been
told
;
We
set
us
down
upon
a
rock
,
Where
shepherds
us'd
to
feed
their
flock
,
In
golden
days
of
old
.
My
bosom
thrill'd
with
pleasing
pain
,
He
look'd
so
like
that
handsome
swain
,
Who
charm'd
the
Grecian
fair
;
I
swore
by
all
yon
lights
above
,
My
heart
,
till
then
a
foe
to
love
,
Did
yield
like
easy
air
.
With
envy
all
condemn
my
flame
,
And
Prudence
says
I
am
to
blame
,
For
loving
one
so
rare
,
Yes
,
I
confess
I
have
been
wrong
,
For
not
Apollo
,
God
of
Song
,
With
Jamie
can
compare
.