Various - Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 5 November 1848

When first the infant learns to look on high,
While twilight's drapery his heart appals,
Thy full-orbed presence captivates his eye;
Or when, 'mid shadows grim upon the walls,
Are sent thy pallid rays,
'Tis awe his bosom fills,
And trembling joy that thrills
His tiny frame, and fastens his young gaze:
Thy spell is on that heart,
And childhood may depart,
But it shall gather strength with youthful days;
For oft as thou, capricious moon!
Shalt wax and wane,
He, now perchance a love-sick swain,
Will watch thee at night's stilly noon,
Pouring his passion in an amorous strain:
Or, with the mistress of his soul —
Lighted by thy love-whispering beams —
In some secluded garden stroll,
Bewildered in ambrosial dreams;
Nor once suspect, while his full pulses move,
That thou, whom tides obey, may'st turn the tide of love!

The watcher on the deep —
Though weary be his eye —
Forgets even drowsy sleep,
When thou art in the sky!
For with thine image on the silvery sea
A thousand forms of memory
Whirl in a mazy dance;
And when he upward looks to thee,
In thy far-reaching glance
There is a sacred bond of sympathy
'Twixt sea and land;
For on his native strand
That glance awakens kindred souls
To kindred thought,
And though the deep between them rolls,
Hearts are together brought;
While tears that fall from eyes at home,
And those that wet the sailor's cheek,
From the same sacred fountains come —
The same emotion speak.

The watcher on the land —
Who holds the burning hand
Of one whom scorching fever wastes —
Beholds thee, orient moon!
With reddened face, expanded in the east,
Till Superstition chills his breast,
While tremulous he hastes
To draw the curtains as thou journeyest on:
But when the far-spent night
Is streaked with dawning light,
Again, to look on thee,
He lifts the drapery,
And hope divine now triumphs over fear,
As in the zenith far
A pale, small orb thou dost appear,
While eastward rises morn's resplendent star!
And Fancy sees the passing soul ascend
Where thy mild glories with the azure blend.

Even on the face of Death thou lookest calm,
Fair Dian! as when watchful thou didst keep
Love's holy vigils o'er Endymion's sleep,
Drinking the breath of youth's perpetual balm.
Thy beams are kissing now
The icy brow
Of many a youth in slumber deep,
Who cannot yield to thee
The incense of Love's perfumed breath,
For no response gives Death!
Ah, 'tis a fearful sight to see
Thy lustre on a human face
Where the Promethean spark has left no trace,
As if it shone upon
The marble cold,
Of that famed ruin old —
The grand, but empty Parthenon!

Dian, enchantress of all hearts!
While mine in song now worships thee,
From thy far-shooting bow the silver darts
Fall thick and fast on me:
Oh, beautiful in light and shade,
By thee is this fair landscape made!
Gems sparkle on the river's breast —
Now covered by an icy vest —
Upon the frozen hills
A regal glory shines!
And all the scene, as Fancy wills,
Shifts into new designs.
Yet night is still as Death's unbroken realms,
And solemnly thy light, wan orb, is cast
Through the arched branches of these reverend elms,
As though it through the Gothic windows passed
Of some old abbey or cathedral vast.

In awe my spirit kneels —
And seems before a hallowed shrine;
Yet not the majesty of Art it feels,
But Nature's law divine —
The presence of her mighty Architect!
Who piled these pyramidal hills sublime,
That still, pure moon, thy radiance will reflect,
And still defy the crumbling touch of Time:
Who built this temple of gigantic trees,
Where Nature's worshipers repair
To pray the heart's unuttered prayer,
Whose veiled thought the great Omniscient sees.

Oh, I could wonder, and adore
Religious Night! and thee, her queen!
Till golden Phœbus should restore
His splendor to the scene!
But the same natural laws control
Thy motions and the poet's will;
So, that while tireless roves the soul,
This actual life must weary still.
And oh, inspirer of my song!
While close these eyes upon thy beams,
Watching, amid thy starry throng,
Be thou the goddess of my dreams.

Ring out, ring out, thy clear sweet note!
Art longing to be free —
To break thy bars and heavenward float?
My bird, this may not be.

Thou ne'er hast known another home
Than in that cage of thine,
And shouldst thou from its shelter roam,
Where meet a love like mine?

When the gay wealth of leaves and flowers
Wreathes every fragrant bough,
And hides thee all the summer hours
From noontide's sultry glow —

And when the limpid grass-fringed brook
Reflects thy yellow wing,
And thou may'st seek each quiet nook
Where sweets are blossoming —

And warble there the cheerful song
That oft has charmed mine ear,
Thou might'st, those leafy shades among,
Be happier far than here.

But when sad Autumn sheds abroad
The stillness of decay,
And leaves beneath the feet are trod
Where young winds love to play —

When icy chains the streams have bound,
Gems hang from every tree,
And but the snow-bird skims the ground,
Where would my trembler flee?

Ah, fold thy wing and rest thee there,
Nor trust deceitful skies,
Though balmy now the gentle air,
Dark tempests will arise.

And Freedom! 'tis a glorious word!
But should the rude winds come,
Then wouldst thou wish, my warbling bird,
For thine own quiet home.

My bird! I too would take my flight,
I long to soar away
To those far realms where all is bright,
Where beams an endless day.

I may not tread a holier sphere,
I may not upward move,
But bound like thee, I linger here
And trust a Father's love.