A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the

Sails with her happy destiny;

Oft is she hid from mortal

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder

How bright her mien!

Far different we—a froward race,

Thousands though rich in Fortune's

With cherished sullenness of

Their way pursue,

Ingrates who wear a smileless

The whole year through.

If kindred humours e'er would

My spirit droop for drooping's sake,

From Fancy following in thy wake,

Bright ship of heaven!

A counter impulse let me

And be forgiven.