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I MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go | |
| Over those hoary crests, divinely led!— | |
| Art thou that huntress of the silver bow | |
| Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread | |
| Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, | 5 |
| Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow, | |
| Where hunter never climb’d,—secure from dread? | |
| How many antique fancies have I read | |
| Of that mild presence! and how many wrought! | |
| Wondrous and bright, | 10 |
| Upon the silver light, | |
| Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought! | |
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II What art thou like? Sometimes I see thee ride | |
| A far-bound galley on its perilous way, | |
| Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray;— | 15 |
| Sometimes behold thee glide, | |
| Cluster’d by all thy family of stars, | |
| Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide, | |
| Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;— | |
| Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, | 20 |
| Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, | |
| Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, | |
| To catch the young Endymion asleep,— | |
| Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch! | |
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III Oh, thou art beautiful, howe’er it be! | 25 |
| Huntress, or Dian, or whatever nam’d; | |
| And he the veriest Pagan, that first fram’d | |
| A silver idol, and ne’er worshipp’d thee! | |
| It is too late, or thou should’st have my knee; | |
| Too late now for the old Ephesian vows, | 30 |
| And not divine the crescent on thy brows!— | |
| Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon, | |
| Behind those chestnut boughs, | |
| Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; | |
| I will be grateful for that simple boon, | 35 |
| In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, | |
| And bless thy dainty face whene’er we meet. | |
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IV In nights far gone,—aye, far away and dead,— | |
| Before Care-fretted with a lidless eye,— | |
| I was thy wooer on my little bed, | 40 |
| Letting the early hours of rest go by, | |
| To see thee flood the heaven with milky light, | |
| And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept; | |
| For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,— | |
| Thou wert the fairies’ armourer, that kept | 45 |
| Their burnish’d helms, and crowns, and corslets bright, | |
| Their spears, and glittering mails; | |
| And ever thou didst spill in winding streams | |
| Sparkles and midnight gleams, | |
| For fishes to new gloss their argent scales! | 50 |
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V Why sighs?—why creeping tears?—why clasped hands?— | |
| Is it to count the boy’s expended dow’r? | |
| That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? | |
| That young Delight, like any o’erblown flow’r, | |
| Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground?— | 55 |
| Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark’st no hour, | |
| Thou art a sadder dial to old Time | |
| Than ever I have found | |
| On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow’r, | |
| Motto’d with stern and melancholy rhyme. | 60 |
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VI Why should I grieve for this?—O I must yearn, | |
| Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory, | |
| Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, | |
| Richly emboss’d with childhood’s revelry, | |
| With leaves and cluster’d fruits, and flowers eterne,— | 65 |
| (Eternal to the world, though not to me), | |
| Ay there will those brave sports and blossoms be, | |
| The deathless wreath, and undecay’d festoon, | |
| When I am hears’d within,— | |
| Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, | 70 |
| That now she watches through a vapour thin. | |
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VII So let it be! Before I liv’d to sigh, | |
| Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills, | |
| Beautiful Orb! and so, whene’er I lie | |
| Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills. | 75 |
| Blest be thy loving light, where’er it spills, | |
| And blessèd thy fair face, O Mother mild! | |
| Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, | |
| Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond, | |
| And blend their plighted shadows into one:— | 80 |
| Still smile at even on the bedded child, | |
| And close his eyelids with thy silver wand! | |
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