TO THE MOON.

The poem

BUSH and vale thou fill'st again

With thy misty ray, And my spirit's heavy chain

Castest far away.

Thou dost o'er my fields extend

Thy sweet soothing eye, Watching like a gentle friend,

O'er my destiny.

Vanish'd days of bliss and woe

Haunt me with their tone, Joy and grief in turns I know,

As I stray alone.

Stream beloved, flow on! flow on!

Ne'er can I be gay! Thus have sport and kisses gone,

Truth thus pass'd away.

Once I seem'd the lord to be

Of that prize so fair! Now, to our deep sorrow, we

Can forget it ne'er.

Murmur, stream, the vale along,

Never cease thy sighs; Murmur, whisper to my song

Answering melodies!

When thou in the winter's night

Overflow'st in wrath, Or in spring-time sparklest bright,

As the buds shoot forth.

He who from the world retires,

Void of hate, is blest; Who a friend's true love inspires,

Leaning on his breast!

That which heedless man ne'er knew,

Or ne'er thought aright, Roams the bosom's labyrinth through,

Boldly into night.

1789.*