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 earth
And bids the virgins of the sky
Lift 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 rise
Like Ghebers for the Sun.

Love claims thee as his own;
And well thy "tender light" accords
With the half-sighed, half-whispered words
Sacred to love alone.

His stolen interview
He may not trust to babbling day,
But when did thy mild beam betray
The 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 fire
Through the closed casement to admire
The 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 weep
O'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 breast
Enkindle thoughts of heaven!