Pocahontas, and Other Poems/The Stars
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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.
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.
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.
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 bonesOf 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.
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.
3932817Pocahontas, and Other Poems — The Stars1841Lydia Sigourney