Poems. Volume III / H. F. Gould [electronic text]

THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT.

MOON, thou art wading through the gathered snow, That o'er us, on the fields of ether spread, Threatens, ere morning to be here below, To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.

Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze, That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil; And kills the twinkling of the starry rays, Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.

It gives almost the ague, to behold The skies so rayless, yet so far from dark; As when our hearth's white ashes, tired and cold, We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.

Yet, by to-morrow's eve our parts may shift, And thou be shining there, serene and clear, While we are hedged by many a frigid drift; Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.

How dreary then the scene for thy mild beams To light, and for the burning stars to view! The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams, And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.

The naked trees, that stand with buried feet, Like skeletons, will slender shadows throw On what seems spread, as nature's winding-sheet, While her slain beauties lie concealed below.

Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill, Where one pale uniform invests the whole, Though it should make one's vital current chill, It must not let in winter to the soul!

It must not bring a frost upon the heart, To kill affection's tendrils—friendship's root, Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start, And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit:

Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed, Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low; But, like the fount that irrigates the field, Make bloom and verdure spring, where'er they flow.

It must not make our shrinking fancies flee, Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn; But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee, On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone.

Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb, Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye, Or close her ear, or make her members numb, Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie.

And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the best To see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here, When these bare branches all appear full-dressed, In some more gentle season of the year.

I love to see it, mingled with the dew, Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers; And soft, and silent, coolly streaming through The whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.

I love to see thy beaming mantle trail Along the fiower-sprent borders of the rill, With rich, deep shadows stamped o'erspread the vale, Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.

I love to see thee through the foliage peep, Where, one soft hour before, the robin sung Her vesper song; the while, in downy sleep, With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.

I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves; And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.

But these are tender memories—ay, and more— Fresh budding hope from memory's root that grows,

To see earth clothed in beauty as before, When thou and we have struggled through the snows.

Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me, From thy pure azure home, with face serene, While I will look abroad, and up to thee, And bless the great Creator of the scene.

Others may call thee fickle—faithless—strange, When veiled in part, or wholly from their view; Yet, though twelve times a year thou seems't to change, Again twelve times I ever find thee true.

'T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds, Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings, Just as earth's bulk or vapor hides or clouds Our glorious view of higher, holier things.