And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more; It fleets on the vision, deluding the view, Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue; O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover, The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover! THAT SILENT MOON. BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE. That silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walked in tranquil beauty forth. How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand, And superstition's senseless rite, And loud, licentious revelry, Profaned her pure and holy light: Small sympathy is hers, I ween, With sights like these, that virgin queen. But dear to her, in summer eve, By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasp'd, And heart meets heart in holy love, To smile, in quiet loneliness, And hear each whisper'd vow and bless. Dispersed along the world's wide way, When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought, And start the tear for those we love! Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon, And gaze upon that silent moon. How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn, The magic of that moonlight sky, To bring again the vanish'd scenes, The happy eves of days gone by; Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years. And oft she looks, that silent moon, On lonely eyes that wake to weep, In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: Oh! softly beams that gentle eye, On those who mourn, and those who die. But beam on whomsoe'er she will, And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart-- What power, the trembling tear to start! The dewy morn let others love, Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm, From dawning light to dying day:-- But oh! be mine a fairer boon-- That silent moon, that silent moon! TO A CIGAR. BY SAMUEL LOW.--1800. Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife, Charm against discontent and wrinkled care. Who knows thy power can never know despair; Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life: When cares oppress, or when the busy day Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff Can drive even want and lassitude away, And give a mourner happiness enough. From thee when curling clouds of incense rise, They hide each evil that in prospect lies; But when in evanescence fades thy smoke, Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother? If thou evaporate, the charm is broke, Till I, departing taper, light another. HOPE.