To The Moonbeam.

1.     Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale,     To bathe this burning brow.     Moonbeam, why art thou so pale,     As thou walkest o'er the dewy dale,     Where humble wild-flowers grow?     Is it to mimic me?     But that can never be;     For thine orb is bright,     And the clouds are light,     That at intervals shadow the star-studded night.     2.     Now all is deathy still on earth;     Nature's tired frame reposes;     And, ere the golden morning's birth     Its radiant hues discloses,     Flies forth its balmy breath.     But mine is the midnight of Death,     And Nature's morn     To my bosom forlorn     Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn.     3.     Wretch! Suppress the glare of madness     Struggling in thine haggard eye,     For the keenest throb of sadness,     Pale Despair's most sickening sigh,     Is but to mimic me;     And this must ever be,     When the twilight of care,     And the night of despair,     Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs that rankle there.