THE STARS.
Make friendship with the stars.
Go forth at night,
And talk with Aldebaran, where he flames
In the cold forehead of the wintry sky.
Turn to the sister Pleiades, and ask
If there be death in heaven? A blight to fall
Upon the brightness of unfrosted hair?
A severing of fond hearts? A place of graves?
Our sympathies are with you, stricken stars,
Clustering so closely round the lost one's place.
Too well we know the hopeless toil to hide
The chasm in love's fond circle. The lone seat
Where the meek grandsire, with his silver locks,
Reclined so happily; the fireside chair
Whence the fond mother fled; the cradle turn'd
Against the wall, and empty; well we know
The untold anguish, when some dear one falls.
How oft the life-blood trickling from our hearts
Reveals a kindred spirit torn away!
Tears are our birth-right, gentle sister train,
And more we love you, if like us ye mourn.
Go forth at night,
And talk with Aldebaran, where he flames
In the cold forehead of the wintry sky.
Turn to the sister Pleiades, and ask
If there be death in heaven? A blight to fall
Upon the brightness of unfrosted hair?
A severing of fond hearts? A place of graves?
Our sympathies are with you, stricken stars,
Clustering so closely round the lost one's place.
Too well we know the hopeless toil to hide
The chasm in love's fond circle. The lone seat
Where the meek grandsire, with his silver locks,
Reclined so happily; the fireside chair
Whence the fond mother fled; the cradle turn'd
Against the wall, and empty; well we know
The untold anguish, when some dear one falls.
How oft the life-blood trickling from our hearts
Reveals a kindred spirit torn away!
Tears are our birth-right, gentle sister train,
And more we love you, if like us ye mourn.
Ho! bold Orion, with thy lion-shield;
What tidings from the chase? what monster slain?
Runn'st thou a tilt with Taurus? or dost rear
Thy weapon for more stately tournament?
'Twere better, sure, to be a man of peace
Among those quiet stars, than raise the rout
Of rebel tumult, and of wild affray,
Or feel ambition with its scorpion sting
Transfix thy heel, and like Napoleon fall.
What tidings from the chase? what monster slain?
Runn'st thou a tilt with Taurus? or dost rear
Thy weapon for more stately tournament?
'Twere better, sure, to be a man of peace
Among those quiet stars, than raise the rout
Of rebel tumult, and of wild affray,
Or feel ambition with its scorpion sting
Transfix thy heel, and like Napoleon fall.
Fair queen, Cassiopeia! is thy court
Well peopled with chivalric hearts, that pay
Due homage to thy beauty? Thy levee,
Is it still throng'd as in thy palmy youth?
Is there no change of dynasty? No dread
Of revolution 'mid the titled peers
That age on age have served thee? Teach us how
To make our sway perennial in the hearts
Of those who love us, so that when our bloom
And spring-tide wither, they in phalanx firm
May gird us round and make life's evening bright.
Well peopled with chivalric hearts, that pay
Due homage to thy beauty? Thy levee,
Is it still throng'd as in thy palmy youth?
Is there no change of dynasty? No dread
Of revolution 'mid the titled peers
That age on age have served thee? Teach us how
To make our sway perennial in the hearts
Of those who love us, so that when our bloom
And spring-tide wither, they in phalanx firm
May gird us round and make life's evening bright.
But thou, O Sentinel, with sleepless eye,
Guarding the northern battlement of heaven,
For whom the seven pure spirits nightly burn
Their torches, marking out, with glittering spire,
Both hours and seasons on thy dial-plate,
How turns the storm-tost mariner to thee!
The poor lost Indian, having nothing left
In his own ancient realm, not even the bones
Of his dead fathers, lifts his brow to thee,
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?
Guarding the northern battlement of heaven,
For whom the seven pure spirits nightly burn
Their torches, marking out, with glittering spire,
Both hours and seasons on thy dial-plate,
How turns the storm-tost mariner to thee!
The poor lost Indian, having nothing left
In his own ancient realm, not even the bones
Of his dead fathers, lifts his brow to thee,
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.
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?
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.
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?
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.
3932817Pocahontas, and Other Poems — The Stars1841Lydia Sigourney