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TO THE MOON.
(Composed by the sea side, on the coast of Camberland.)
WANDERER! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near
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,
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;
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!
TO THE MOON.
Queen of the stars !—so gentle, so benign,
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
scope, Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope !
TO B. R. HAYDON.
HIGH is our calling, Friend !--Creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,