And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the best To see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here, When these bare branches all appear full-dressed, In some more gentle season of the year.
I love to see it, mingled with the dew, Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers; And soft, and silent, coolly streaming through The whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.
I love to see thy beaming mantle trail Along the flower-sprent borders of the rill, With rich, deep shadows stamped, o'erspread the vale, Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.
I love to see thee through the foliage peep, Where, one soft hour before, the robin sung Her vesper song; the while, in downy sleep, With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.
I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves; And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.
But these are tender memories--ay, and more-- Fresh budding hope from memory's root that grows, To see earth clothed in beauty as before, When thou and we have struggled through the snows.
Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me, From thy pure azure home, with face serene, While I will look abroad, and up to thee, And bless the great Creator of the scene.
Others may call thee fickle--faithless--strange, When veiled in part, or wholly from their view; Yet, though twelve times a year thou _seems't_ to change, Again twelve times I ever find thee true.
'T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds, Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings, Just as earth's bulk or vapor hides or clouds Our glorious view of higher, holier things.
I 'll tell you now about Tom Tar, The sailor stout and bold, Who o'er the ocean roamed so far, To countries new and old.
Tom was a man of thousands; he Would ne'er complain nor frown, Though high and low the wind and sea Might toss him up and down.
Amid the waters dark and deep, He had the happy art, When all around was storm, to keep Fair weather in his heart.
Though winds were wild, and waves were rough, He 'd always cast about, And find within he 'd calm enough To stand the storms without.
"For naught," said Tom, "is ever gained By sighs for what we lack; Nor can it mend a vessel strained, To let our temper crack.