No!—I have nothing new to say,
Why must ye wait to hear my story?
Go, get thee on thy trackless way,
There’s many a weary mile before ye—
Get thee to bed, lest some poor poet,
Enraptur’d with thy phiz, should dip
A pen in ink to let thee know it,
And (mindful not to let thee slip
His fingers) bid thy moonship stay
And list, what he might have to say.
Yet I do love thee!—and if aught
The muse can serve thee, will petition
Her grace t’ attend thine airy court,
And play the part of first musician—
But “ode,” and “lines,” “address,” and “sonnet,”
“To Luna dedicate,” are now
So plentiful, that (fie upon it!)
She’ll add no glory to thy brow,
But tell thee, in such strains as follow,
That thy mild sheen beats Phosphor hollow!
That thou art “fairest of the fair,”
Tho’ Phœbus more that’s grand possesses,
That tree and tower reflect thy glare,
And the glad stream thy ray confesses,
That, when thy silvery beams illumine
The landscape, nature seems bedight
With loveliness so rare, that few men
Have e’er been blessed with such a sight!
And all such moonshine:—but enough
Of this tame “milk and water” stuff.
Δ
[7] Butler’s Saints.
[8] Ibid.
[9] Ibid.