University of Virginia Library


139

THE MOON IN THE WILDERNESS.

It was a wild and far-off land
Where nature's savage realms expand
Arrayed by her primeval hand
In virgin dress;
Where stretched, untouched by axe or brand,
The wilderness.
Beyond the bounds of our frontier,
Where Indian tribes pursue the deer,
And light the council-fire in fear
Of white man's face,
Who prowls for them and plunder near,
Black-souled and base!
It was a chill December night;
The ice had locked the waters tight,
And winter's cheerless mantle white
O'er earth was spread,
And nature seemed all lifeless quite—
Cold, drear, and dead.

140

By fickle, varying fortune led,
Like Crusoe or the Raven-fed,
I spread my blanket for a bed,
But not of rest;
For sleep had from my eyelids fled,
And peace, my breast.
Beneath a rattling roof I lay,
And thro' the walls of crannied clay
I heard old Boreas whistling play,
The drear hours long,
And shivering wished for power to stay
His fiendish song.
As if to make the scene more drear,
At times was wafted to my ear
A howl so wild and dread to hear,
Like consternation;
That one who scarcely felt a fear,
Felt desolation.
Then as I turned my restless eye
And saw the full moon sailing high,
Slow thro' the wintry midnight sky,
Uprose to mind
Sad, bitter thoughts, and pensively
I thus repined:
Roll on, bright orb of frigid light,
That shinest on this cheerless night,
Cold splendor in thy blaze!

141

How different to the human race
May seem this night thy placid face,
And thy unwarming rays!
Thou shinest on the rich and poor,
The homeless, and the HOME;
Thy light is on the cottage door,
And on the lordly dome.
One, peering from the halls of ease,
Abroad thy silver splendor sees,
And calls this beauteous night;
His hearth sends out a ruddy glow,
Mirth, wine and music round him flow,
He hears the bitter blasts that blow,—
They lull him with delight.
Thou seest the selfish and the vile,
Him whose black heart is full of guile
Tow'rd man, his brother dear;
A sort of ravening human wolf,
More base than him whose howl aloof,
So dismal, I can hear.
And yet he wants for nought, mayhap,
But, pampered, sits in Comfort's lap,
And snarls with thankless scorn;
Or turns his eye with envious gleam
On those around, whom he may deem
More blest by Plenty's horn.

142

Thou shinest on the cottage roof
Where avarice may find reproof;
Its inmates lack for show,
And yet with sweet contentment blest,
Perhaps this hour they calmly rest
Without a cause for wo.
Thou look'st on my New England home.
Ah! why should Fortune tempt to roam,
With falsely promised boon;
Alluring on with fair display,
Seeming at hand, while far away
As thou art, mournful moon!
E'en so the child, when in the sky
He hails thee first with joy,
Puts forth his hand with cheated eye,
To grasp the shining toy.
Slow down the west went coursing on
The moon, to leave me soon alone,
When Boreas in more plaintive tone
Spoke thro' the wall;
I listened in the solemn moan,
An answering call:—
‘What gloomy thoughts pervade thy mind
Incited by the winter wind!
Compare thy case, sad tho' it be,
To forms of sterner misery;

143

All have their part of ills to bear,
Nor deem thine own the lion's share.
‘See the poor beggar shivering lie,
Stretched by the cold highway to die
Inviting to his aged breast
Death's dart; for that may give him rest.
‘Hear the wrecked sailor's drowning cry,
Beneath some wild inclement sky.
Think what despair must whelm his soul
As icy billows round him roll,
And roaring rush upon their prey,
From friends and country far away.
Think how with joy his feet would tread
The flooring of thy humble shed.
‘Think of the prisoner's wretched doom,
Pining within a dungeon's gloom;
What groans bespeak his mental pains!
How hopeless sound his clanking chains!
Perhaps he counts the winged flight
Of hours that measure out the night,
And knows that death awaits his prey,
Whene'er the sun shall bring the day.
‘Think of the bondman's hopeless woe!
Can you his life of sorrows know?
Canst feel his galling fetters weigh
Upon thy limbs so heavily?

144

Art thou compelled to breathe his sigh
In vain for blessed liberty?
‘Hear'st thou the maniac shrieking wild,
From reason, hope, and home exiled;
Who to the freezing wintry air
Mutters the incoherent prayer?
‘Think of the countless pallid train
This night are racked on beds of pain?
Where sickness trims the feeble light
That glimmers thro' the weary night?
Compare their hapless lot with thine,
And no more in dejection pine.’
I heard, and felt reproof—resolved
Repining thoughts to rest;
My heart in thankfulness dissolved
That I so much was blest.
And then the same instructive strain
Sank to a lullaby;
And when from sleep awaked again,
The sun was in the sky.