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THAT SILENT MOON.

BY G. W. DOANE.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes Have passed beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallowed hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud licentious revelry,

Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasped, And heart meets heart in holy love,

To smile, in quiet loneliness,

And hear each whispered vow and bless.

THAT SILENT MOON.

Dispersed along the world's wide way,

When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love!
Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,

To bring again the vanished scenes,
The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,

On lonely eyes that wake to weep,

In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banished sleep:

O, softly beams that gentle eye,

On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chastened light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray : What power is hers to soothe the heartWhat power the trembing tear to start!

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THAT SILENT MOON.

The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm, From dawning light to dying day :But oh! be mine a fairer boon

That silent moon, that silent moon!

THE BUGLE.

BY G. MELLEN.

But still the dingle's hollow throat,
Prolonged the swelling Bugle's note;
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answered with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,

Till Echo seemed an answering blast.-Lady of the Lake

I.

O, WILD, enchanting horn!

Whose music, up the deep and dewy air,
Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there,

'Till a new melody is born!

II.

Wake, wake again; the night

Is bending from her throne of Beauty down,
With still stars beaming on her azure crown,
Intense, and eloquently bright!

III.

Night, at its pulseless noon!

When the far voice of waters mourns in song,

And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long,

Barks at the melancholy moon!

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Hark! how it sweeps away,

Soaring and dying on the silent sky,

As if some sprite of sound went wandering by,
With lone halloo and roundelay.

V.

Swell, swell in glory out!

Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart,
And my stirred spirit hears thee with a start,
As boyhood's old remembered shout!

VI.

O, have ye heard that peal,

From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements,
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,
Like some near breath around ye steal!

VII.

Or have ye, in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamor to the skies,

Where wings and tempests never soar!

VIII.

Go, go; no other sound,

No music, that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,

On Midnight's fathomless profound!

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