SONNET.—TO THE MOON.
Regent of night, thy presence must I love,
When from between the lowering clouds array’d,
In mild effulgence, o’er the silver cove
Thou spread’st a dubious light, and chequer’d shade:
At such a time my visionary mind
Thro’ Fancy’s glass sees forms ærial rise;
’Tis then the breathings of the passing wind
Seem to my listening ear Misfortune’s sighs;—
Nor only seem: for tho’ at dead of night
Labour recruits his strength in deepest sleep,
And rosy Youth enjoys his slumbers light,
Desponding Penury still wakes to weep.
Regent of night! thy softest influence shed;
Ye rising storms, oh! spare her houseless head!
NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street—where Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received—And at No. 33, Oliver-Street.