TO THE MOON.
Thou gloomy star! whose melancholy glances
Play with the gentle streamlet softly murmuring,
Thou hast awaked thee with the wretched mourners,
And their hearts vibrate yet with heavy sorrow.
Thou hear'st their sighings in the evening darkness,
While all the earth, in silence shrouded, slumbers.
There is no slumber in the house of mourning;
Slumber takes flight to the abodes of gladness.
In the dull churchyard, lo! a cross is standing,
And the light breezes shake the dark-leaved cypress,
As it o'ershadows many a mouldering mortal—
Mortals who bore, as I now bear, life's burden.
From the deep tomb I see a spirit rising—
Rising from death's upyielding dormitory:
Is it not one of that distressful number
Borne down like me by heavy, heartfelt trouble?
Came it not tow'rds me? Why should I avoid it?
Comfort is more in that night-walking spirit
Than in the vain illusions of the living,
Who have betray'd me with their treacherous favors!
Spirit! come. Ah ! 'tis fled!—how soon departed!
Soon as it glanced my falling tears, it vanish'd.
