Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/To the Evening Star

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.

Toil, for the rushlight's blaze:When turned he from the cottage fireThrough the closed casement to admireThe splendour of thy rays?

Not thus pale silent Grief;From cheerful hearth and torch-light gay,She glides to welcome thy first ray,And finds thy stay too brief.

Loathing the "garish" sun,It soothes her, while the happy sleep,Through thy lone reign to watch and weepO'er joys for ever gone.

Shine on, kind star of Even!Light love to joy, and toil to rest,And oh! in the lone mourner's breastEnkindle thoughts of heaven!