THE MOON. 

Those cloudy summits hence to gaze below, 

Like the wild chamois on her Alpine snow, 

Where hunter never climbed—secure from dread ? 
A thousand ancient fancies I have read 
Of that fair presence, and a thousand wrought, 

Wondrous and bright, 
Upon the silver light, 
Tracing fresh figures with the artist thought, 
What art thou like? Sometimes I see thee ride 
A far-bound galley on its perilous way, 
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray : 
Sometimes behold thee glide, 
Clustered by all thy family of stars, 

Like a lone widow through the welkin wide, 
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars. 


Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, 
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, 
Till in some Latinian cave I see thee creep, 




To catch the young Endymion asleep, 

Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch. 

O thou art beautiful, howe’er it be ! | 
Huntress, or Diana, or whatever named,— 
And he the veriest Pagan who first framed 
A silver idol, and ne’er worshipped thee; 
It is too late, or thou should’st have my knee, — 
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows, 
And not divine the crescent on thy brows ; 












—— 

