When lying on my clayey bed, In icy sleep, Who there, by pure affection led, Will come and weep? And by the moon implant the rose Upon my breast, And bid it cheer my dark repose, My lowly rest? Could I but know when I am sleeping Low in the ground, One faithful heart would there be keeping Watch all night round, As if some gem lay shrined beneath That sod’s cold gloom, ’Twould mitigate the pangs of death, And light the tomb. Yes! in that hour, if I could feel, From halls of glee And Beauty’s presence, one would steal In secresy, And come and sit and weep by me In night’s deep noon; Oh! I would ask of memory No other boon. But, ah! a lonelier fate is mine— A deeper wo; From all I love in youth’s sweet time I soon must go, Drawn round me my pale robes of white In a dark spot, To sleep through death’s long, dreamless night, Lone and forgot. * * * * * THE MAN IN THE MOON. A TRUE STORY. (DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND MARTHA W. B——.) BY CAROLINE C——. Away with weary cares and themes! Luring wide the moonlit gate of dreams! Leave free once more the land which teems With wonders and romances! I know that _thou_ wilt judge aright Of all that makes the heart more light, Or lends one star-gleam to the night Of clouded Melancholy! —J. G. WHITTIER. I fancy, my good reader, that you are about as familiar with the physical appearance of this exalted personage, the far-famed Man in the Moon, as is your most obedient. That you have gazed upon him with love-kindled eyes many and many a witching summer night, I have not the shadow of a doubt—that you have often lamented the provoking imperfectness of your vision, which presents such insurmountable difficulties and obstructions in the way to your beholding clearly what manner of man he truly is, I cannot have much hesitation in believing; reasoning as I do, from my extensive knowledge of what passes in the minds of other people, and from the thoughts and feelings I have had myself in regard to the peculiar personalities of this mysterious gentleman.