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.
