Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/64

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THE STARS.
And glads his broken spirit with thy beam. The weary caravan, with chiming bells, Making strange music 'mid the desert sands, Guides, by thy pillar'd fires, its nightly march. Reprov'st thou not our faith so oft untrue To its Great Pole Star, when some surging wave Foams o'er our feet, or thorns beset our way?
 Speak out the wisdom of thy hoary years, Arcturus! patriarch! Mentor of the train That gather radiance from thy golden urn. We are of yesterday, short-sighted sons Of this dim orb, and all our proudest lore Is but the alphabet of ignorance: Yet ere we trace its little round, we die. Give us thy counsel, ere we pass away.
 Lyra, sweet Lyra, sweeping on with song, While glorious Summer decks the listening flowers, Teach us thy melodies; for sinful cares Make discord in our hearts. Hast thou the ear Of the fair planets that encircle thee, As children round the hearth-stone? Canst thou quell Their woes with music? or their infant eyes Lull to soft sleep? Do thy young daughters join Thy evening song? Or does thine Orphean art Touch the warm pulses of the neighbour stars And constellations, till they higher lift The pilgrim-staff to run their glorious way?
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