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POEMS.
Grow starless in her later hours! Have theseNo train of flaming watchers, that shall markTheir coming and farewell! Oh Sons of Light!Have ye then left me ere the dawn of dayTo grope along my journey sad and faint? Thus I complained, and from the darkness roundA voice replied—was it indeed a voice,Or seeming accents of a waking dreamHeard by the inner ear? But thus it said:Oh, Traveller of the Night! thine eyes are dimWith watching; and the mists, that chill the valeDown which thy feet are passing, hide from viewThe ever-burning stars. It is thy sightThat is so dark, and not the heavens. Thine eyes,Were they but clear, would see a fiery hostAbove thee; Hercules, with flashing mace,The Lyre with silver chords, the Swan uppoised
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