Hark! o'er the silent waters stealing, 
The dash of oars sounds soft and clear: 
Through night's deep veil, all forms concealing, 
Nearer it comes, and yet more near. 

See! where the long reflection glistens, 
In yon lone tower her watch-light burns: 
To hear our distant oars she listens, 
And, listtening, strikes the harp by turns. 

The stars are bright, the skies unclouded; 
No moonbeam shines; no breezes wake: 
Is it my love, in darkness shrouded, 
Whose dashing oar disturbs the lake? 

O haste, sweet maid, the cords unrolling; 
The holy hermit chides our stay! 
Hark! from his lonely islet tolling, 
His midnight bell shall guide our way.