Poems (Toke)/The harvest moon
HE Harvest Moon! how silently She glides along the sky,And seems to look upon this earth With calm, benignant eye!Lonely her path, but still there shines Fresh radiance on her brow,As if she felt how many a heart Her light rejoices now.
THE HARVEST MOON.
HE Harvest Moon! how silently She glides along the sky,And seems to look upon this earth With calm, benignant eye!Lonely her path, but still there shines Fresh radiance on her brow,As if she felt how many a heart Her light rejoices now.No star is near thee, lovely Moon; Yet brighter seems thy powerThan when a thousand round thee shone, In Summer's warmest hour:And still that Summer lingering seems, Although her reign is past,To pour one parting blessing forth The brightest and the last!
How still and calm is all around! No breath upon the air,No jarring sound, to break the spell Of moonlight stillness there:Only the sheepbell's distant sound, The night-breeze bears along,Or wafts upon the listening ear The reaper's homeward song.
Clear seen in that deep solemn light, Against the dark blue skies,Like giant spirits of the past, Yon ancient woods arise:And on each immemorial tree, Whose birthtime none can know,The moonlight quivers brightly now, As centuries ago.
Yes! changeless 'mid a changing world,— Undimmed where all grows dim,—Bright as when first from earth arose Creation's morning hymn:Beloved alike by youth and age, The gentle and the brave,—That radiance gilds man's cradled sleep, And shines upon his grave!
Thou pensive Moon! as thus I gaze Upon thy glistening brow,Swift wake the dreams of other days, And scenes far distant now.Upon my native hills once more Thou risest, young and fair;But shall I e'er behold again Thy silver lustre there?
Alas! I know not,—still the thought Of many a youthful hourComes borne upon that gentle ray, With sad yet soothing power. The past, with all its light and shade, Seems traced upon thy brow,Blent with the calmer, purer beam That falls around me now.
Moon, moon! thy melancholy smile Has some mysterious power,To wake in every breast the thought Of life's best, holiest hour.Ten hearts the world has chilled and seared, Tremble beneath thy ray,With long-lost dreams of youth and hope, Of feeling passed away.
Till, 'mid the overwhelming calm That hushes earth and main,Tears, soft as childhood's, gush once more, Like Summer's freshening rain.And feelings long despised as vain— Love, confidence, and truth—Burst from their sleep, to wring the soul With thoughts of home and youth!
No marvel, then, sweet Moon! that hearts Cast in a softer mouldShould read in thee sweet memories, Dreams of the days of old.No marvel, high and holy thoughts Should own thy wakening power,And rise to bless the Hand that gave The moonlight's gentle hour!
E.
September 2, 1841.