THE STAR How brilliant on the Ethiop brow of night Of Majesty, mid hosts more mildly bright, Sure, 'twas a thing for angels to have seen, With dusky wing her dazed and haggard eye; But 'twas in vain; for, pierced with light, she died : And now her timid ghost dares only brood O'er planets in their midnight solitude, Doth any weep o'er blighted hope? or curse The breast with hope of an immortal lot, Oh, then the soul, no longer earthward weighed, Shall soar towards heaven on exulting wing. Among the joys past Fancy's picturing, It may be one to scan, through space displayed, Those wondrous works our blindness now debarsThe awful secrets written in the stars. STANZAS ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR'S MOTHER Believe me, though my idle shell It was not that its voice could tell Of one on earth I value more! When thoughts of thee my soul came o'er, I found, alas, a feeble lay But ill expressed the love I bore It said not what my heart would say. And, if I now attempt to dwell Upon a matchless Mother's praise, Each word must, like a cypher, swell Remember, did mine infant gaze What, if no proud or prosperous star I would not for a throne resign That gratitude thy love hath taught. |