A NIGHT THOUGHT
LO! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny; Oft is she hid from mortal eye Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly How bright her mien! Far different we–a froward race, Thousands though rich in Fortune’s grace With cherished sullenness of pace Their way pursue, 10 Ingrates who wear a smileless face The whole year through. If kindred humours e’er would make My spirit droop for drooping’s sake, From Fancy following in thy wake, Bright ship of heaven! A counter impulse let me take And be forgiven. 1837.