All-all is changed, as if Simoom
Had pass'd with withering magic over!
No trace of beauty or of bloom

Can sense perceive or eye discover ;
But wild, and waste, and desolate,

A wilderness is stretch'd around me ; And where, 'mid summer's smiles I sate, November's wintry breeze hath found me.

The lilac boughs are tinged with red;
The yellow leaves profusely lying:
The flowers have bent or bend the head;
The latest of the train are dying.

Hark! 'tis the voice of Nature cries

"Shall Pride and Passion vanquish Reason?

Will man be never-never wise!

Heaven is his home, and life a season."

HYMN TO THE MOON.

How lovely is this silent scene!
How beautiful, fair lamp of Night,
On stirless woods, and lakes serene,
Thou sheddest forth thy holy light;
With beam as pure, with ray as bright,
As Sorrow's tear from Woman's breast,

When mourning over days departed,
That robb'd her spirit of its rest,

And left her lone, and broken-hearted.

Refulgent pilgrim of the sky,

Beneath thy march, within thy sight, What varied realms outstretching lie! Here landscape rich with glory bright; There lonely wastes of utter blight ;

The nightingale upon the bough

Of cypress, here her song is pouring; And there begirt with mounts of snow, For food the famish'd bear is roaring!

What marvel that the spirits high

Of eastern climes, and ancient days, Should hail thee, as a deity,

And altars to thine honour raise !

So lovely wert thou to the gaze

Of shepherds on Chaldean hills,

When summer flowers around were springing, And when to thee a thousand rills,

Throughout the quiet night were singing.

And, lo! the dwarfish Laplander,
Far from his solitary home,
Dismay'd beholds the evening star,
While many a mile remains to roam :
Thou lightest up the eastern dome,
And, in his deer-drawn chariot, he
Is hurl'd along the icy river;
And leaps his sunken heart to see

The light in his own casement quiver.

Nor beautiful the less art thou,

When Ocean's gentlest breezes fan, With gelid wing, the feverish glow

That daylight sheds on Indostan ! There, on the glittering haunts of man, And on the amaranthine bowers,

The glory of thy smile reposes,

On hedgerows, white with jessamine flowers, And minarets o'erhung with roses.

The exile on a foreign shore

Dejected sits, and turns his eye
To thee, in beauty evermore,
Careering through a cloudless sky;
A white cloud comes, and, passing by,

Veils thee a moment from his sight:

Then, as he rests beneath the shadows, He thinks of many as sweet a night,

When glad he roam'd his native meadows.

Though years in stayless current roll,
Thou art as full of glory yet,

As when to Shakespeare's glowing soul,
Where mightiness and meekness met-
Thou shonest upon his Juliet ;

Tipping with silver all the grove,

And gleaming on the cheek of Beauty, Who durst forsake, for Romeo's love, The mandates of paternal duty.

Enthroned amid the cloudless blue,
Majestic, silent, and alone,

Above the fountains of the dew,
Thou glidest on, and glidest on,

To shoreless seas, and lands unknown. The presence of thy face appears,

Thou eldest born of Beauty's daughters,

A spirit traversing the spheres,

And ruling o'er the pathless waters.