| |
| NOT in the sky, | |
| Where it was seen | |
| So long in eminence of light serene,— | |
| Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, | |
| Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep, | 5 |
| Though beautiful in green | |
| And crystal, its great caves of mystery,— | |
| Shall the bright watcher have | |
| Her place, and, as of old, high station keep! | |
| |
| Gone! gone! | 10 |
| Oh! nevermore, to cheer | |
| The mariner, who holds his course alone | |
| On the Atlantic, through the weary night, | |
| When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, | |
| Shall it again appear, | 15 |
| With the sweet-loving certainty of light, | |
| Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep! | |
| |
| The upward-looking shepherd on the hills | |
| Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, | |
| He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze, | 20 |
| Gladding his gaze,— | |
| And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, | |
| Guiding him homeward o’er the perilous ways! | |
| How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, | |
| Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills | 25 |
| The sorrowful vault!—how lingers, in the hope that night | |
| May yet renew the expected and sweet light, | |
| So natural to his sight! | |
| |
| And lone, | |
| Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, | 30 |
| Brood the once happy circle of bright stars: | |
| How should they dream, until her fate was known, | |
| That they were ever confiscate to death? | |
| That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, | |
| And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, | 35 |
| That they should fall from high; | |
| Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die, | |
| All their concerted springs of harmony | |
| Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone! | |
| |
| Ah! still the strain | 40 |
| Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; | |
| The sister stars, lamenting in their pain | |
| That one of the selectest ones must die,— | |
| Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! | |
| Alas! ’t is ever thus the destiny. | 45 |
| Even Rapture’s song hath evermore a tone | |
| Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. | |
| The hope most precious is the soonest lost, | |
| The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost. | |
| Are not all short-lived things the loveliest? | 50 |
| And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky, | |
| Look they not ever brightest, as they fly | |
| From the lone sphere they blest! | |
| |
