TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT. Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, TO THE HARVEST MOON. Cum ruit imbriferum ver: Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. VIRGIL. MOON of Harvest, herald mild 'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. Moon of Harvest, I do love In the blue vault of the sky, Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! When boundless plenty greets his eye, Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon! 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes; His visionary views of joy! God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare. Sons of luxury, to you Leave I sleep's dull power to woo; Press ye still the downy bed, While feverish dreams surround your I will seek the woodland glade, Shall softly sail The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes Shall grateful rise To thee, the modest Harvest Moon! head; TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* SWEET Scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And sweet the train shall be, and long, Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And hark! the wind god, as he flies, And sailing on the gusty breeze, * The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead: A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. TO THE MORNING. WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. BEAMS of the daybreak faint! I hail Tired with the taper's sickly light, And with the wearying, number'd night, I hail the streaks of morn divine: And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife, And cheerily reillumes the lambent flame of life. The lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, And soars till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. |