And oft she looks, that silent moon, On lonely eyes that wake to weep, In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: Oh! softly beams that gentle eye, On those who mourn, and those who die.
But beam on whomsoe'er she will, And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart— What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love, Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm, From dawning light to dying day:— But oh! be mine a fairer boon— That silent moon, that silent moon!
TO A CIGAR.
BY SAMUEL LOW.—1800.
Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife, Charm against discontent and wrinkled care. Who knows thy power can never know despair; Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life: When cares oppress, or when the busy day Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff Can drive even want and lassitude away, And give a mourner happiness enough. From thee when curling clouds of incense rise, They hide each evil that in prospect lies; But when in evanescence fades thy smoke, Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother? If thou evaporate, the charm is broke, Till I, departing taper, light another.
HOPE.
BY J. R. DRAKE.