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 rovẽ,
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,

And thinking soon,

Oh, modest Moon!

How many a female

Along the road,

To see the load,

eye

will roam

The last dear load of harvest-home.

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 show'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 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 head;

I will seek the woodland glade,

Penetrate the thickest shade,

Wrapp'd 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 rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

I.

SOFTLY, Softly blow, ye breezes,

Gently o'er my Edwy fly!

Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly;
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by!
My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

II.

I have cover'd him with rushes,
Water-flags, and branches dry.

Edwy, long have been thy slumbers;
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye!
My love is asleep,

He lies by the deep,

All along where the salt waves sigh.

III.

Still he sleeps; he will not waken,

Fastly closed is his eye;

Paler is his cheek, and chiller
Than the icy moon on high.

Alas! he is dead,

He has chose his death-bed

All along where the salt waves sigh.

IV.

Is it, is it so, my Edwy?

Will thy slumbers never fly?

Couldst thou think I would survive thee?

No, my love, thou bid'st me die.

Thou bid'st me seek

Thy death-bed bleak

All along where the salt waves sigh.

V..

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head,

And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, And our shroud the waters spread; The moon will smile sweet,

And the wild wave will beat,

Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed.

THE

SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S

SONG

TO THE NIGHT.

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

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
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 noontide'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