’Tis dreamy midnight’s solemn hour,
The busy village sleeps,
And the pale moonbeam’s silver sheen
Its nightly vigil keeps;
The pole-star twinkles in the blue,
The hour is waxing late,
Then haste thee, maiden, and away,
And seek the Wishing-gate:
And if thy heart be free from guile,
Thy thoughts serene and holy,
Go breathe thy prayer, go wish thy wish,
And banish melancholy.
The maiden leaves her busy wheel,
And dons her hose and shoon,
And hastens to that ancient gate,
While shines the quiet moon.
‘There is a bark upon the wave,
’A bark I fain would see,
‘And one who treads her gallant deck,
’Who vowed to cherish me!
‘Who vowed, in spite of fortune’s frown,
‘His love should never vary–
’Would he were here in safety now,
‘Conversing with his Mary!’
Pale clouds obscured the thoughtful moon,
The hour was waxing late,
The maiden, pensive and alone,
Leant o’er the Wishing-gate.
Was it a robber in the dark,
That stole along so wary?
‘Tis he! ’tis he I my Henry dear,
‘Restored to love and Mary!’