To The Moon - Composed By The Seaside, On The Coast Of Cumberland

Wanderer! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near To human life's unsettled atmosphere; Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake, So might it seem, the cares of them that wake; And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping; What pleasure once encompassed those sweet names Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, An idolizing dreamer as of yore! I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's friend; So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made known By confidence supplied and mercy shown, When not a twinkling star or beacon's light Abates the perils of a stormy night; And for less obvious benefits, that find Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind; Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime; And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins, And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains.      The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams, Empress of Night! are gladdened by thy beams; A look of thine the wilderness pervades, And penetrates the forest's inmost shades; Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb; Canst reach the Prisoner, to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible! And lives there one, of all that come and go On the great waters toiling to and fro, One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move Catching the lustre they in part reprove Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, And make the serious happier than the gay?      Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain; That there's a sensitive, a tender, part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, For healing and composure. But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty; So shines that countenance with especial grace On them who urge the keel her 'plains' to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest, Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; A kindly influence whereof few will speak, Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.      And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave; Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck, no star perhaps in sight, And nothing save the moving ship's own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night Oft with his musings does thy image blend, In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend, And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor's friend!