The fair, young moon in a silver bow,
Looks back from the bending west,
Like a weary soul, that is glad to go
To the long-sought place of rest.
Her crescent lies in a beaming crown
On the distant hill's dark head,
Serene as the righteous looking down
On the world, from his dying bed.
Her rays, to our view, grow few and faint.
Her light is at last withdrawn;
And she, like the calmly departing saint,
To her far-off home is gone.
O! what could have made the moon so bright
Till her work for the earth was done?
'T was the glory drawn from a purer light—
From the face of the radiant sun!
For she on her absent king could look,
Whom the world saw not the while;
Her face from his all its beauty took—
She conveyed to the world his smile.
By him, through night has the moon been led
'Mid the clouds that crossed the sky,
While she drew her beams o'er the earth to shed,
From the god where she fixed her eye.
And thus does Faith 'mid her trials, view
In the God to whom she clings
A SUN, whose glories for ever new,
Unfold in his healing wings.
'T is He, who will guide our course aright
Though grief overcloud the heart;
And it is but faith being lost in sight
When the good from the earth depart!
