Poem by Eaton Stannard Barrett

To the Moon

Now while the birds within their feathers hide
The nestled head, thy visit, Moon, renew;
Let thy pale spirit thro' the foliage glide,
And flowering thorns illuminate with dew.
To thee the Nightingale her pipe shall play,
And thus my pen shall moralize her lay.

The gorgeous Sun ten thousand warblers sing,
One solitary bird the Moon below.
Thus for the Great what choral Paeans ring!
Thus for the Good what scanty praises flow!

1. Fanny
2. Song

Walter Scott To the Moon ("Hail to thy cold and clouded beam")

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