 | The harp and plow |  |
93
THE HARVEST MOON.
I.
The burning sun has gone to rest;All cloudless are the skies;
The breeze blows softly from the west;
Night's dreamy strains arise.
Forgotten now the toil, the heat
That marked the glittering noon,
As o'er the eastern hills I greet
The reaper's yellow moon.
II.
Aloft she cleaves the ether thinAnd ‘beautifully blue,’
As if impatient to begin
The evening and the dew;
As if in mirthful mood she chased
Old Phœbus to his rest,
And spied him rounding in his haste
The corner of the west.
94
III.
What placid beauty, what reposeMakes lovely now the night,
As o'er the landscape Luna throws
Her mollifying light!
The mountain, steep and rough by day,
Seems now a smoother hill;
So softening influence may allay
Man's rude, imperious will.
IV.
The reaper sees each well known fieldAssume some fairy change;
And forms fantastic seem revealed
Where swaying shadows range.
The rustic bridge that spans the stream
Seems now a gem of art,
So sweetly does the nightly beam
Perform the pencil's part.
V.
Fit season for ideal dream!While plodding mortals sleep,
I'll wander by the lonely stream
And musing vigils keep.
The glancing ripple, and the still
Deep water's shady flow,
Remind me of a hasty will,
And cautious prudence slow.
95
VI.
The zephyrs wandering thro' the vale,As if without an aim,
Shall fan the spark of fancy pale
To vivifying flame.
And thou, bright beamer, far o'erhead,
Composing toil and strife!
Thou dost in bands of beauty wed
The reaper to his life.
| The harp and plow | |