I am too poor—I cannot pay
A youthful guide for that long way.
A withered beldame’s footsteps slow,
Cold-blooded wretch! I will not hire,
Nor journey with a lamp of fire
At night, or waxen flambeau’s glow.
I love not thus at night to stray,
And sleep at home the livelong day;
How can the beauty recognize
Her bard, when darkness veils the skies!
To me the candles will be giv’n
Of him who rules above in heav’n,
To guide me safely through the night—
My path to Morvyth’s home to light!
Praise to the great Creator’s name,
Who made that sparkling orb of flame,
Nought has he dress’d in lovelier rays
Than that round star so small and clear.
Candle of God, whose golden blaze
Illumes the land to me most dear,
From me nor treachery nor time
Can snatch thy guardian light sublime!
Nor autumn’s blast at random driv’n,
Blessed “wafer” lifted up in heav’n[1]!
- ↑ Blessed ‘wafer;’ he compares the moon to the sacred wafer or host of Roman Catholic worship. A few of the last lines of the original are omitted from the translation.
