John Howard Bryant (1807–1902)

THERE is a magic in the moon’s mild ray,—

What time she softly climbs the evening sky,

And sitteth with the silent stars on high,—

That charms the pang of earth-born grief away.

I raise my eye to the blue depths above,

And worship Him whose power, pervading space,

Holds those bright orbs at peace in his embrace,

Yet comprehends earth’s lowliest things in love.

Oft, when the silent moon was sailing high,

I ’ve left my youthful sports to gaze, and now,

When time with graver lines has marked my brow,

Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye.

O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide,

Shine on my eve of life,—shine soft, and long abide.