MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE ZENITH MOON

This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick;
It looks a little paler.

SHAKSPEARE.

The gorgeous sun may rise in gold,

And set again in ruby blaze,

While clouds, pavilioning his rays,
Like domes of amethyst unfold:

Far more, when night is at its noon,
Each star a diamond stud above,

And heaven one sapphire arch, I love

To mark the Zenith Moon.

Her car of mother-pearl she yokes

With fleet and silver-footed deer,

Who whirl her thro' yon azure sphere,

Till, far behind, the opal spokes

Have left their track where stars are strewn Thick as the dew-gems glittering

On bedded violets in spring:

Thus rides the Zenith Moon.

Sometimes she wraps her in a shroud

Of snow-and-silver-tissued woof;

Anon, like Fortune, far aloof, She comes, blind-folded by a cloud; Then, like a girl in revelling tune,

She peeps from underneath her mask; And bay, and spire, and mountain bask Beneath the Zenith Moon.

She throws a bridge of light athwart
The emerald desert of the deep,

On which the green-haired mermaids keep Their festivals: and, if report

Speak truth, on dark blue nights of June,
By dolphins borne, they glide along,
Chaunting a wild and witching song
To thee, the Zenith Moon.

Then Fairies dance their rings of joy
I' the spiced air of fields, whereon
Titania railed with Oberon

About the little Indian Boy;

And spectres wakening from their swoon
Toss their shadowy arms on high,

Thro' whose gaunt forms the wizard's eye Can mark the Zenith Moon.