TO THE MOON. Robert Lloyd Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1137 K093079.004 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. IV. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 97-101. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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TO THE MOON . BY MR. ROBERT LLOYD . ALL hail ! majestic Queen of Night , Bright Cynthia ! sweetest Nymph , whose presence brings The pensive pleasures , calm delight , While Contemplation smooths her ruffled wings , Which Folly's vain tumultuous joys , Or business , care , and buzz of lusty day Have all too ruffled . — Hence away Stale Jest , and flippant Mirth , and Strife-engendering Noise . When Evening dons her mantle grey , I'll wind my solitary way , And hie me to some lonely grove ( The haunt of Fancy and of Love ) Whose social branches , far outspread , Possess the mind with pleasing dread . While Cynthia quivers thro' the trees That wanton with the summer breeze , And the clear brook , or dimpled stream , Reflects oblique her dancing beam . How often , by thy silver light , Have lovers tongues beguil'd the Night ? When forth the happy pair have stray'd , The amorous swain and tender maid , And as they walk'd the groves along , Chear'd the still eve with various song . While every artful strain confest The mutual passion in their breast . To lovers hours fly swift away , And Night reluctant yields to Day . Thrice happy Nymph , thrice happy Youth , When Beauty is the meed of Truth ! Yet not the happy Loves alone , Has thy celestial presence known . To thee complains the Nymph forlorn Of broken faith , and vows forsworn ; And , the dull Swain , with folded arms , Still musing on his false one's charms , Frames many a sonnet to her name , ( As lovers use to express their flame ) Or pining wan with thoughtful care , In downcast silence feeds Despair ; Or when the air dead stillness keeps , And Cynthia on the water sleeps ; Charms the dull ear of sober night , With love-born Music's sweet delight . Oft as thy orb performs its round , Thou listenest to the various sound Of Shepherds hopes and Maidens fears ( Those conscious Cynthia silent hears While Echo , which still loves to mock , Bears them about from rock to rock ) . But shift we now the pensive scene , Where Cynthia silvers o'er the green . Mark yonder spot , whose equal rim Forms the green circle quaint and trim ; Hither the Fairies blithe advance , And lightly trip in mazy dance ; Beating the pansie-paven ground In frolic measures round and round ; These Cynthia's Revels gaily keep , While lazy mortals snore asleep ; Whom oft they visit in the night , Not visible to human sight ; And as old prattling Wives relate , Tho' now the fashion's out of date , Drop sixpence in the Housewife's shoe , And pinch the Slattern black and blue . They fill the mind with airy schemes , And bring the Ladies pleasant dreams . Who knows not Mab , whose chariot glides , And athwart men's noses rides ? While Oberon , blithe Fairy , trips , And hovers o'er the ladies lips ; And when he steals ambrosial bliss , And soft imprints the charming kiss , In Dreams the nymph her swain pursues , Nor thinks 'tis Oberon that wooes . Ye sportive Youth , and lovely Fair , From hence , my lesson read , beware , While Innocence and Mirth preside , We care not where the Fairies glide ; And Oberon will never miss To greet his favourites with a kiss ; Nor ever more ambrosia sips , Than when he visits — 's lips . When all things else in silence sleep , The blithsome Elfs their vigils keep , And always hover round about , To find our worth or frailties out . Receive with joy these Elfin sparks , Their kisses leave no tell-tale marks , But breathe fresh beauty o'er the face , Where all is virtue , all is grace . Not only elfin fays delight To hail the sober Queen of Night , But that sweet bird , whose gurgling throat Warbles the thick melodious note , Duly as evening shades prevail , Renews her soothing love-lorn tale . And as the Lover pensive goes , Chaunts out her symphony of woes . Which in boon Nature's wilder tone , Beggar all sounds which Art has known . But hist — the melancholy bird Among the groves no more is heard ; And Cynthia pales her silver ray Before th' approach of golden Day , Which on yon mountain's misty height Stands tiptoe with his gladsome light . Now the shrill lark in aether floats , And carols wide her liquid notes ; While Phoebus , in his lusty pride , His flaming beams flings far and wide . Cynthia farewell — the pensive Muse No more her feeble flight pursues , But all unwilling takes her way , And mixes with the buzz of Day :