Poems (Welby)/The Stars (Ye snow-white clouds, whose fleecy wings enfold)

by Amelia Welby

For works with similar titles, see Stars.

THE STARS.

Ye snow-white clouds, whose fleecy wings enfold
 The stars, that light yon boundless breadth of blue,
Roll back your edges, tinged with deepest gold,
 And softly let the peaceful wanderers through,
Till, one by one, they burst upon my eyes,
O'ertaking my young heart, with sudden sweet surprise.

Celestial lights, lit by the power divine,
 That bids you roll through yonder azure plain,
Ye startle thoughts within this heart of mine,
 That I must breathe, or it will break in twain!
Companions of the twilight and the dew,
Smile on the Minstrel-Girl, who strings her harp anew.

I am not one whose eagle-eye can reach
 The mystic things, within your golden spheres,
Yet better thoughts than science e'er can teach
 Are softly brimming my young eyes with tears;
For e'en the simplest heart at times may scan
What years can scarce unfold, or wisdom teach to man.

How oft, when but a child, in wildest glee,
 I've climbed the summit of some breezy hill,
Whose mossy sides went sloping to the sea
 Where slept another heaven serenely still,
While, from the mighty strong-hold of the seas,
The dead sent up their dirge upon the twilight breeze.

And there beneath a fringe of dewy leaves,
 That drooped away from many a bended bough,
I used to lie on summer's golden eves,
 And gaze above as I am gazing now,
Thinking each lustrous star a heavenly shrine
For an immortal soul, and wondered which was mine.

But now the moon, beside yon lonely hill,
 Lifts high her trembling cup of paly gold,
And all the planets, following slow and still,
 Along the deep their solemn marches hold,
While here and there some meteor's startling ray
Shoots streaks of arrowy fire far down the milky-way.

The milky-way! ah! fair, illumined path,
 That leadest upward to the gate of heaven,
My spirit soaring from this world of scath,
 Is lost with thee amid the clouds of even,
And there, upborne on Fancy's glittering wing,
Floats by the golden gate, and hears the angels sing.

O! who can lift above a careless look,
 While such bright scenes as these his thoughts engage,
And doubt, while reading from so fair a book,
 That God's own finger traced the glowing page,
Or deem the radiance of yon blue expanse,
With all its starry hosts, the careless work of Chance?

O blessed stars! whene'er ye softly fling
 A silvery trembling down by lake and hill,
'T is then that sweet Religion's holy wing
 Broods o'er the spirit, and doth softly fill
Its silent depths with that pure heavenly bliss,
That we so seldom feel, save at an hour like this.

For ne'er since love's sweet raptures o'er me stole.
 As first its young existence dawned in sighs,
Have I e'er felt such fullness in my soul,
 Such depth of softness at my heart and eyes,
As I now feel upon this dewy sod.
Pondering with holy awe the wondrous works of God.

Ye bring the time when happy lovers meet
 In some lone spot, when not a sound is heard
Save their own sighs, or the unequal beat
 Of their young hearts to tender wishes stirred,
As hand seeks hand, and meeting glances tell
The unuttered tale of love, too sweetly, and too well.

But all in vain to thought's tumultuous flow
 I strive to give the strength of glowing words;
The waves of feeling, tossing to and fro
 In broken music o'er my harp's loose chords,
Give but their fainting echoes from my soul,
As through its silent depths, their wild swift currents roll.

Yet, thou, who art mine inspiration, thou,
 For whose sweet praises still I strive to sing,
I will not murmur once, when, bending low,
 At thy dear feet my broken harp I fling.
Well pleased if others think this song I send,
Though all unworthy praise, too simple to offend.