ODE

TO THE HARVEST MOON.

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:

Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent:

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.

VIRGIL

MOON of harvest, herald mild
Of plenty, rustic labour's child,
Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
As soft it trembles o'er the stream,
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide,
Where innocence and peace reside;

'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song.

Moon of harvest, I do love
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,

But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

Pleasing 'tis, oh, modest moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat,
Ripen'd by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy

When boundless plenty greets his eye,

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,

Stern despoilers of the plains,

Hence away, the season flee,
Foes to light-heart jollity;
May no winds careering high,

Drive the clouds along the sky;

But may all nature smile with aspect boon,

When in the heavens thou shew'st thy face, oh, Harvest

Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes;
He dreams of crowded barns, and round
The yard he hears the flail resound;

Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy :

God of the winds! oh, hear his humble pray'r,

And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I sleep's dull pow'r to woo:

Press ye still the downy bed,

While fev'rish dreams surround your head;

I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapt in contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,
While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune,

And oft my eyes.

Shall grateful rişe

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

THE SHIPWRECK'D SOLITARY'S SONG,

TO THE NIGHT.

THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tow'r high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the woulds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song—
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the moontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard ;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam. And I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my ev'ning song.

And I have hail'd the grey morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And try to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony..

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;
But oh when darkness robes the heav'ns,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think

Aerial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone—

A solitary man.

And when the blust'ring winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.