Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/65

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THE STARS.
49
 Hail, mighty Sirius! monarch of the suns, Whose golden sceptre, subject worlds obey; May we in this poor planet speak to thee? Thou highest dweller 'mid our highest heaven, Say, art thou nearer to His Throne whose nod Doth govern all things? Hearest thou the strong wing Of the archangel, as it broadly sweeps The empyrean, to the farthest orb Bearing Heaven's watch-word? Knowest thou what report The red-hair'd comet, on his car of flame, Brings the recording seraph? Hast thou heard One whisper through the open gate of heaven When the pale stars shall fall, and yon blue vault Be as a shrivell'd scroll? Thou answer'st not! Why question we with thee, Eternal Fire? We, frail, and blind, to whom our own dark moon, With its few phases, is a mystery! Back to the dust, most arrogant! Be still! Deep silence is thy wisdom! Ask no more! But let thy life be one long sigh of prayer, One hymn of praise, till from the broken clay, At its last gasp, the unquench'd spirit rise, And, unforgotten, 'mid unnumber'd worlds, Ascend to Him from whom its essence came.
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