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.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains,

Stern despoilers of the plains,

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 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?

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.

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.