Agnes the Indian Captive. A Poem, in Four Cantos. With Other Poems. By the Rev. John Mitford |
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THE MOON. |
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 | Agnes |  |
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THE MOON.
I
They say, fair Moon! thy pallid climeRolls changeless round the realm of Time;
Thy silver fields and watery bowers
Are softer, brighter, far than ours;
A blessed land, and passing fair to tell,
The very sweetest spot for mortal man to dwell.
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II
And with that thought I've gazed on thee,Till brighter thou did'st seem to be,
Till louder swelled the heavenly strain
That guides thee through yon boundless plain,
And I almost believed it was my prayer
That made thee forth to shine so bright, so wondrous fair.
III
When eve, with palmer's modest mien,Climbing yon western hill is seen,
And lingering down the dewy vale
The cuckoo chaunts his latest tale;
Then, thou to hear the songster's cry,
With step so soft and still, mov'st up the cloudless sky.
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IV
And o'er the waters cold and brightThou gazest through the still midnight;
Or is it not thine eye that gleams
So mild amid the ocean streams?
But thy fair sister, who does love to abide
With that chaste band of maids beneath the azure tide.
V
Then fancy other shapes for theeDoes love to weave; and thou to me,
Fair Moon! in other guise art seen,
A primrose on the vernal green,
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Or pale swan floating on amid the waters blue.
VI
And now among thy sister choir,A vestal pure with lamp of fire:
And now by fancy thou art drawn
A saint-like lady clad in lawn,
A gentle damsel on the plain,
Guiding her palfrey white with rod and silken rein.
VII
When Winter starting from his sleepPeals his loud horn along the deep,
And calls the giant-gods who dwell
In mountain-cave, or ocean-cell;
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Thou guard'st thy beacon-flame through many a midnight hour.
VIII
And dear to thee that season bright,When, like the genii of the night,
And tossing wide their fiery hair,
The northern streamers dance in air,
And planets shine, and meteors glide afar,
On some bright message sent to many a distant star.
IX
But when along the battle-plainThou glarest upon the ghastly slain;
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On broken armour strewn around,
On scatter'd plumes, and helmets riven,
Dark is the look thou wear'st amid the stormy heaven.
X
—'Tis past!—For he who by thy sideDid spread his tresses golden pride;
E'en he, the youthful star of day,
Flies from his favourite bride away,
Nor sees thee fainting and forlorn,
Fade like the love-lit lamp before the rising morn.
XI
Alas! I mark'd thy sad return,I saw thy fever'd forehead burn;
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Thy angry eye was red with flame;
And fast I saw thy hurrying journey run,
That thou might'st haste to climes untravell'd by the sun.
| Agnes | |