The moon had fill’d her horn on high,
And pour’d on earth her silv’ry sheen,
A still and cloudless azure sky
Proclaim’d her night’s own radiant queen.
The clearing, round beneath her smile,
Seem’d gladden’d, as by day’s bright noon;
The eager bushman, late at toil,
Rejoiced at having such a boon.

’Mong prostrate logs his work he plied,
His axe disturbing night’s dull ear;
To breathe, on axe he lean’d, and eyed
The moon, whose smile his heart did cheer.
The thoughts of home, and former joys,
Insensibly stole o’er his mind;
And fond remembrance drew a sigh
For friends, endear’d, he left behind.

At once his crosses, toils, and cares,
From first endured, in bold array,
Upon him sprung in unawares,
As better feelings fain to sway;
But from his humble cottage, lone,
His wife’s sweet strains fell on his ear,
Which his attention roused, anon
His drooping spirits fain to cheer.

“Those wand’ring thoughts still let me spurn,”—
He cried,—“since she’d my cares beguile;
Nor shall I hapless fortune mourn,
Since love alone can lighten toil!”
With this, again, his axe he plied,
Cheer’d by her mellow’d strains the while;
And ev’ry stroke he gave replied,
’Tis surely love that lightens toil!