William Barnes (1801–1886)

Rural Nature

Ye airs of sunny spring that softly blow

With whisp'ry breathings o'er the grasses blade,

Ye grass-bespangling flow'rs—too soon to fade—

That now in gemlike brightness round me grow:

Ye saplings, and ye greenbough'd trees, that throw

Your waving shadows on the sunny glade;

Thou lowland stream, whose winding waters flow,

Like molten silver, to the hoarse cascade:

Give vice the noisy town; and let the great

Ride mighty o'er the earth with pride and pow'r;

Give avarice his gold: but let me flee

Where cold and selfish hearts live not to hate

And scorn. Oh take me to thy lonely bow'r

Sweet rural nature! Life is dear for thee.

To the Moon

Queen of the stars, that ridest forth on high

Amid the silver-skirted clouds of night,

O'ershining proudly from the zenith sky

The gloomy wood upon the southern height;

Now day with busy life and golden light

Has sunk away below the western sky;

And sleep-bound labourers have shut their sight

From voiceless fields and streams that round them lie.

Glory of night, still following the sun,

How sweetly does thy mildly-beaming face,—

Made bright by him,—reflect his glorious rays!

Like thine may be the course that we may run;

Reflecting in the darksome world the grace

Of our Redeemer to our endless praise.