To the Moon (Smith)

Queen of the silver bow!--by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; And oft I think--fair planet of the night, That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest: The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Released by Death--to thy benignant sphere; And the sad children of Despair and Woe Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim--in this toiling scene!