V.
The watcher on the land—
Who holds the burning hand
Of one whom scorching fever wastes—
Beholds thee, orient moon!
With reddened face, expanded in the east,
Till Superstition chills his breast,
While tremulous he hastes
To draw the curtains as thou journeyest on:
But when the far-spent night
Is streaked with dawning light,
Again, to look on thee,
He lifts the drapery,
And hope divine now triumphs over fear,
As in the zenith far
A pale, small orb thou dost appear,
While eastward rises morn's resplendent star!
And Fancy sees the passing soul ascend
Where thy mild glories with the azure blend.