To the Moonbeam

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.

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.

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.