SONNET TO THE MOON. THE glitt'ring colours of the day are fled; Come, melancholy orb! that dwell'st with night, Come! and o'er earth thy wand'ring lustre shed, Thy deepest shadow, and thy softest light; To me congenial is the gloomy grove, When with faint light the sloping uplands shine; That gloom, those pensive rays alike I love, Whose sadness seems in sympathy with mine! But most for this, pale orb! thy beams are dear, For this, benignant orb! I hail thee most: That while I pour the unavailing tear, And mourn that hope to me in youth is lost, Thy light can visionary thoughts impart, And lead the Muse to soothe a suff'ring heart.