Untitled Poem 1

an the moon's own morn,
'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer
The weary hills, impervious, blackening near;
Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while
On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 345

Even now she decks for me a distant scene,
(For dark and broad the gulf of time between)
Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray,
(Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; 350
How fair its lawns and sheltering [97] woods appear!
How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!)
Where we, my Friend, to happy [98] days shall rise,
'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs
(For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 355
Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains,
And, rimy without speck, extend the plains:
The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays [99]
Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; 360
From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide
The hills, while gleams below the azure tide;
Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes
A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths
Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, 365
Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.[100]

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. [U]
Air listens, like the sleeping water, still,
To catch the spiritual music of the hill, [101]
Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep,
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep,
The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore,
The boat's first motion--made with dashing oar; [102]
Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, 375
Hurrying the timid [103] hare through rustling corn;
The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; [104]
And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl;
The distant forge's swinging thump profound;
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 380