Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, br When pleasure, like the midnight flower br That scorns the eye of vulgar light, br Begins to bloom for sons of night, br And maids who love the moon. br 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade br That beauty and the moon were made; br 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing br Set the tides and goblets flowing. br Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, -- br Joy so seldom weaves a chain br Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain br To break its links so soon. br br Fly not yet, the fount that play'd br In times of old through Ammon's shade, br Though icy cold by day it ran, br Yet still, like souls of mirth, began br To burn when night was near. br And thus, should woman's heart and looks br At noon be cold as winter brooks, br Nor kindle till the night, returning, br Brings their genial hour for burning.