To A Moonbeam By Our Fireside.

What dost thou here? A drop of strange cold light After thy airy flight Of many a thousand league of sky? Like glow--worm, or the sparkling eye Of snake, dost thou appear By this my nightly fire, among these faces dear. Why art thou come? Is it that night is bleak, And thou in vain dost seek Some refuge from the chilly wind? And thou no better nook couldst find In earth or heaven's high dome, To nestle and be warm, than this our peopled home? Now thou art gone, And all thy light dost shroud In some swart--bosomed cloud, Or waitest on thy mother dear, Bridging her way with opal clear, Till vapour there is none, And silver--bright she walks her peaceful path alone. Here and away, Bound on no great behest, A fleeting spark at best; So high is heaven, or I so low, That the least things that come and go My wandering moods obey, In thoughts that linger by me many a busy day.