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III.

TO THE MOON.

(Composed by the sea side, on the coast of Camberland.)

WANDERER! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near
To human life's unsettled atmosphere;
Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake,
So might it seem, the cares of them that wake;
And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping,
Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping ;
What pleasure once encompassed those sweet names
Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims,
An idolizing dreamer as of yore!
I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore
Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend
That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's FRIEND ;
So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made

known
By confidence supplied and mercy shown,
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light
Abates the perils of a stormy night;
And for less obvious benefits, that find
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind;
Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime;
And veteran ranging round from clime to clime,
Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,
And wounds and weakness oft his labor's sole re-

mains.

The aspiring mountains and the winding Streams, Empress of Night! are gladdened by thy beams; A look of thine the wilderness pervades, And penetrates the forest's inmost shades;

Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom,
Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb;
Canst reach the Prisoner—to his grated cell
Welcome, though silent and intangible! -
And lives there one, of all that come and

go
On the great waters toiling to and fro,
One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour
Enthroned aloft in undisputed power,
Or crossed by vapory streaks and clouds that move
Catching the lustre they in part reprove-
Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day,
And make the serious happier than the gay?

Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the phrensy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain ; That there's a sensitive, a tender part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, For healing and composure. --But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty ; So shines that countenance with especial grice On them who urge the keel her pluins to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stoodEven till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sighTouched by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest,

Gentle awakenings, visitations meek;
A kindly influence whereof few will speak,
Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.

And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave; Then, while the Sailor, mid an open sea Swept by a favoring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck-no star perhaps in sight, And nothing save the moving ship's own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant nightOft with his musings does thy image blend, In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend, And thou art still, O Moon! that Sailor's FRIEND!

1835.

IV.

TO THE MOON.

(Rydal.)

Queen of the stars !—so gentle, so benign,
That ancient Fable did to thee assign,
When darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow
Warned thee these upper regions to forego,
Alternate empire in the shades below-
A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea
Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee
With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising bail
From the close confines of a shadowy vale.
Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene,
Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen
Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face,
And all those attributes of modest grace,
In days when Fancy wrouglit unchecked by fear,

Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere, To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear!

O still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very Babe in arms, While he, uplifted to wards thee, laughs outright, Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother's sight) O still belov’d, once worshipped! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendor; still those far-shot beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, When teeming Matrons—yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death And painful struggle and deliverance-prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot cease Love to promote and purity and peace; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face.

Then, silent Monitress ! let us-not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of Science laid them open to mankindTold, also, how the voiceless heavens declare God's glory; and acknowledging thy share In that blest charge ; let us—without offence To aught of highest, holiest influenceReceive whatever good 't is given thee to dispense.

May sage and simple, catching with one eye
The moral intimations of the sky,
Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken,
“ To look on tempests and be never shaken;"
To keep with faithful step the appointed way
Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day,
And from example of thy monthly range
Gently to brook decline and fatal change;
Meek, patient, steadfast, and with loftier

scope, Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope !

1835.

SONNET.

TO B. R. HAYDON.

HIGH is our calling, Friend !--Creative Art

(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues),
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned—to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the old world seems adverse to desert.
And oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness-
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard !

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