Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride:
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear,

Nor tricked and frounced as she was wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,

With minute drops from off the eaves,

And, when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There, in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from day's garish eye,

While the bee, with honied thigh,

That at her flowery work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;