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On An Eclipse Of The Moon At Midnight.
By William Lisle Bowles
Up, up, into the vast extended space,
Thou art ascending in thy majesty,
Beautiful moon, the queen of the pale sky!
But what is that which gathers on thy face,
A dark mysterious shade, eclipsing, slow,
The splendour of thy calm and steadfast light?
It is the shadow of this world of woe,
Of this vast moving world; portentous sight!
As if we almost stood and saw more near
Its very action - almost heard it roll
On, in the swiftness of its dread career,
As it hath rolled for ages! Hush, my soul!
Listen! there is no sound; but we could hear
The murmur of its multitudes, who toil
Through their brief hour. The heart might well recoil;
But this is ever sounding in His ear
Who made it, and who said, "Let there be light!"
And we, the creatures of a mortal hour,
'Mid hosts of worlds, are ever in his sight,
Catching, as now, dim glimpses of his power.
The time shall come when all this mighty scene
Darkness shall wrap, as it had never been.
O Father of all worlds! be thou our guide,
And lead us gently on, from youth to age,
Through the dark valley of our pilgrimage;
Enough if thus, bending to thy high will,
We hold our Christian course through good or ill,
And to the end with faith and hope abide.
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