I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will
Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves;
And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill
Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.
But these are tender memories—ay, and more—
Fresh budding hope from memory’s root that grows,
To see earth clothed in beauty as before,
When thou and we have struggled through the snows.
Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me,
From thy pure azure home, with face serene,
While I will look abroad, and up to thee,
And bless the great Creator of the scene.
Others may call thee fickle—faithless—strange,
When veiled in part, or wholly from their view;
Yet, though twelve times a year thou seems’t to change,
Again twelve times I ever find thee true.
’T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds,
Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings,
Just as earth’s bulk or vapor hides or clouds
Our glorious view of higher, holier things.
[TOM TAR.]
I ’ll tell you now about Tom Tar,
The sailor stout and bold,
Who o’er the ocean roamed so far,
To countries new and old.
Tom was a man of thousands; he
Would ne’er complain nor frown,
Though high and low the wind and sea
Might toss him up and down.