NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN.

‘ Neath my moon what doest thou,

With a somewhat paler brow

Than she giveth to the ocean?

He, without a pulse or motion,

Muttering low before her stands,

Lifting his invoking hands

Like a seer before a sprite,

To catch her oracles of light:

But thy soul out-trembles now

Many pulses on thy brow.

Where be all thy laughters clear,

Others laughed alone to hear?

Where thy quaint jests, said for fame?

Where thy dances, mixed with game?

Where thy festive companies,

Mooned o'er with ladies’ eyes

All more bright for thee, I trow?

‘ Neath my moon what doest thou?