II

No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

      On the river,—all 's still, and the night's sleepy eye

Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,

      Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly;

            And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant,

            Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want

No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,

But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.