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.

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 eye

Along the road,

To see the load,

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 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,
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!

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
To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song;

And sweet the train shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude

To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,

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,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead:
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

TO THE MORNING.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

BEAMS of the daybreak faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.

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
That round my rural casement twine;

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.

Now let me leave my restless bed,
And o'er the spangled uplands tread;
Now through the custom'd wood walk wend;
By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend,
Till on the mountain's summit gray,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale
It breathes into my breast!

My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale,
Is with new colours dress'd.

Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze,
Invigorate my frame :

I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase,
With thee the distant clime will trace
Beyond those clouds of flame.

Above, below, what charms unfold
In all the varied view!

Before me all is burnish'd gold,
Behind the twilight's hue.

The mists which on old Night await,
Far to the west they hold their state,
They shun the clear blue face of Morn;
Along the fine cerulean sky

The fleecy clouds successive fly, [adorn. While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds