The pilot loves thy quivering smile, Her orphans sleep; and screech-owls prune Stare at the Zenith Moon. The Lover, Poet, Lunatic, Are still liege-subjects to thy sway: The next, almost as fancy-sick, Turns clouds to castles in his lune; The Maniac's moodier extacy Sees beck'ning ghosts none else can see, All by the Zenith Moon. Star of the restless! when the whirl Of giddier hours had winged their flight, And, like a maid on her nuptial night, Thy brow was crescented with pearl, To me thy smile hath been a boon ; For thou canst tell, and thou alone, What waking nights these eyes have known With thee, the Zenith Moon. Even here, beneath a foreign sky, Where orange-buds perfume the air, And storied bust and statue fair Are eloquent of days gone by; And the nightingale's voluptuous tone Even here, thy pure transparent brow Beams on my heart like friendship's eye; All things are strange to me save thou. I meet thee on a foreign strand, As one I knew in another land. Roll on, thou Zenith Moon! VERSAILLES, Sept. 1819. TO A FRIEND Dear Henry! shall a distant lute Be heard in such an hour as this Altho' but little wont to suit Its chords to speak of bliss ? The magic bust of Memnon hailed Apollo rising from the sea; And thus thy bridal sun unveiled Shall claim a song from me. F 2 Then let the note of rapture swell! I'll join with those, tho' far away, Who wish thee and thy young Bride well On this auspicious day. My lute is trembling in the light— A vase of wine is at my side By Cupid! I'll drink deep this night Blest be the band which Love alone, With rosy fingers, firmly ties! There is a world within its zone Which gentle hearts will prize Beyond the gross or giddy one The sensual and the senseless chuse, Who yet, in withered hope, shall own That world of bliss they lose. |