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!

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

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?

Could'st 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.

ས.

I will gently kiss thy cold lips,

On thy breast I'll lay my head,

And the winds shall 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-tow'r 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
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my ev'ning song,

ΙΟ