Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber (1814–1890)

ROLL on, bright Moon! And if we bid or not,

It would, undoubtedly, as ever shine.

How sweetly on yon bank its beams recline,

A radiant glory hallowing the spot,

Revealing rock and shrub in mystic show,

The tall trees rising steeple-like and high,

Their forms disclosed against the western sky,

And flowers, moon-tinted there amid the glow;

Revealing lovers, vowing by that moon

Eternal fealty, everlasting truth,

And hosts of pretty oaths impelled by youth,

Rapidly made, and broken full as soon!

Revealing, too, ’mid country autumn airs,

Young men and roguish maidens “hooking” pears.