And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep. Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign To smile upon us here, A transient visitor? Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves. I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way--where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour. There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate This day of jubilee To sad reflection's shrine; And I will cast my fond eye far beyond This world of care, to where the steeple loud Shall rock above the sod, Where I shall sleep in peace. TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT. Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Blasts of the night! ye howl as now My shuddering casement loud With fitful force ye beat. Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, The howling sweep, the sudden rush; And when the passing gale Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. * * * * * TO THE HARVEST MOON. Cum ruit imbriferum ver: Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent. Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. VIRGIL. Moon of Harvest, herald mild Of plenty rustic labour's child, Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam, As soft it trembles o'er the stream, And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, Where Innocence and Peace reside! 'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. Moon of Harvest, I do love O'er the uplands now to rove, While thy modest ray serene Gilds the wide surrounding scene; And to watch thee riding high In the blue vault of the sky, Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. Pleasing 'tis, oh! modest Moon! Now the night is at her noon, 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, While around the zephyrs sigh, Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, Ripen'd by the summer's heat; Picturing all the rustic's joy When boundless plenty greets his eye, And thinking soon, Oh, modest Moon! How many a female eye will roam Along the road, To see the load, The last dear load of harvest home. Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, Hence, away, the season flee, Foes to light-heart jollity: May no winds careering high Drive the clouds along the sky, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!