I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,
Be our next toast given,In whose presence revel we,
On the tombs that lie scatter'd below:The moon fills the place with her silvery light,
Verdant fields, broad meads, and pastures gleaming,Gushing springs, all heav'nly and enchanting.
Let the bumper then go round!For all sighs and groans of anguish
That soon are mute, and nought deny!With her into the holy place
Yet fresh and joyous was my mind;What fire within my veins then play'd!
For at my lute's soft sighing