ODE TO THE MOON.

BY ROBERT M. BIRD.

O MELANCHOLY Moon,

Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon
Under the hills that catch thy waning ray,
Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres,

The friend of grief, and confidant of tears.

Mine earliest friend wert thou:

My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under

The locust tree, and, through the chequered bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be

The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee.

Youth grew; but as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul,

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ODE TO THE MOON.

And seemed upon thy pictured disk to trace
Remembered features of a radiant face.

And manhood, though it bring

A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring

My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill

The boyish yearning to be with thee still.

Would it were so; for earth

Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail;

And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth,

Turn to a moody melody of wail,

And through her stony throngs I go alone,

Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still

Thou art my only counsellor, with whom Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill, Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom Of solitude, which is so sad and sore, Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.

A boyish thought, and weak :—
I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak

ODE TO THE MOON.

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Of her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee;
And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest,
With nought but thy pale beams upon my breast.

Let it be so indeed!

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone;

And let me perish where no heart shall bleed,

And nought, save passing winds, shall make my moan; No tears, save night's to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine.

NIGHT.

BY JONES VERY.

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is When I this conscious being may resig Whose only task thy words of love to And in thy acts to find each act of min A task too great to give a child like me The myriad-handed labors of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue Yet when thou seest me burthened by t Each other gift more lovely then appear For dark-robed night comes hovering fr And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darkened couch I Thine eyes untired above will constant vig

NLY one night at sea,"

"Twas thus the promise ran, By frail presumptuous mortal given, To vain, confiding man,

"Only one night at sea,

And land shall bless thy sight, When morning's rays dispel

The shadows of that night."

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