Poetry Archives

Cum ruit imbriferum ver:
Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent.
Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret.
VIRGIL.


    Moon of Harvest, herald mild
    Of plenty rustic labour’s child,
    Hail! oh hail! I greet thy beam,
    As soft it trembles o’er the stream,
    And gilds the straw-thatch’d hamlet wide,
    Where Innocence and Peace reside!
’Tis thou that gladd’st with joy the rustic throng,
Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song.

    Moon of Harvest, I do love
    O’er the uplands now to rove,
    While thy modest ray serene
    Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
    And to watch thee riding high
    In the blue vault of the sky,
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray,
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way.

    Pleasing ’tis, oh! modest Moon!
    Now the night is at her noon,
    ’Neath thy sway to musing lie,
    While around the zephyrs sigh,
    Fanning soft the sun-tann’d wheat,
    Ripen’d by the summer’s heat;
    Picturing all the rustic’s joy
    When boundless plenty greets his eye,
      And thinking soon,
      Oh, modest Moon!
    How many a female eye will roam
      Along the road,
      To see the load,
    The last dear load of harvest home.

    Storms and tempests, floods and rains,
    Stern despoilers of the plains,
    Hence, away, the season flee,
    Foes to light-heart jollity:
    May no winds careering high
    Drive the clouds along the sky,
But may all nature smile with aspect boon,
When in the heavens thou show’st thy face, oh Harvest Moon!

    ’Neath yon lowly roof he lies,
    The husbandman, with deep-seal’d eyes:
    He dreams of crowded barns, and round
    The yard he hears the flail resound;
    Oh! may no hurricane destroy
    His visionary views of joy!
God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer,
And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare.

    Sons of luxury, to you
    Leave I sleep’s dull power to woo;
    Press ye still the downy bed,
    While feverish dreams surround your head;
    I will seek the woodland glade,
    Penetrate the thickest shade,
    Wrapp’d in contemplation’s dreams,
    Musing high on holy themes,
      While on the gale
      Shall softly sail
The nightingale’s enchanting tune,
      And oft my eyes
      Shall grateful rise
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!