SONG. I. The stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time; The sun will never fail ; But follow, follow round the world, Wherever he may be. II. Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light; The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he 's away; So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day. N ODE TO THE MOON. I. MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go Of that mild presence! and how many wrought! Upon the silver light, Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought! II. 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, Cluster'd 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, Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, III. Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be! Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; IV. In nights far gone,-ay, far away and dead, I was thy wooer on my little bed, Letting the early hours of rest go by, To see theo flood the heaven with milky light, And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept ; For thou wert then purveyor of Thou wert the fairies' armourer, my dreams, that kept Their burnish'd helms, and crowns, and corslets bright, Their spears, and glittering mails; And ever thou didst spill in winding streams Sparkles and midnight gleams, For fishes to new gloss their argent scales!— V. Why sighs?—why creeping tears?-why clasped hands?— That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? Than ever I have found On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow'r, VI. Why should I grieve for this?-O I must yearn, Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry, With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flow'rs eterne,- Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, VII. So let it be :-Before I lived to sigh, Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills, ΤΟ WELCOME, dear Heart, and a most kind good morrow; Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks,- |