Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/178

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TO THE EVENING STAR.
It is a joy where sadness hath a part, A melancholy, worth whole days of mirth,The eye in tears, indeed, but with a heart Which bounds as if 'twould break the bonds of earth.
Thou lovely star! methinks thy herald-ray Speaketh of rest beyond our hour of time;And seemeth to invite the soul away To seek for refuge in a happier clime.
To the Evening Star.
Once more, thou radiant star,Hail to those fires that nightly burn,Heaven-kindled in thy sacred urn,Sending their light afar.
When twilight walks the earthAnd bids the virgins of the skyLift their celestial lamps on high,And call the dew-drops forth.
Then comest thou, loveliest one—The fondly sought of many eyes,That watch and wait for thee to riseLike Ghebers for the Sun.
Love claims thee as his own;And well thy "tender light" accordsWith the half-sighed, half-whispered wordsSacred to love alone.
His stolen interviewHe may not trust to babbling day,But when did thy mild beam betrayThe tender and the true?
And thou art toil's delight;When day deserts the fading west,He hails the harbinger of rest,And home-restoring night.
Yet these unconstant be;Love leaves thee for the yellow torch,And casts aside, at Hymen's porch.His last fond thought of thee.
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