The Moon

Queen of the silver bow, by thy pale

Alone and pensive I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,

Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid

Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;

And oft I think, fair planet of the night,

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest;

The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,

Released by death, to thy benignant sphere;

And the sad children of despair and woe,

Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.

Oh, that I soon may reach thy world serene,

Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene.