To a Star

Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome scene

Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest,

Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil,

Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake,

Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweet

Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires: —

Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep,

And all is hushed, — all, save the voice of Love,

Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast

Of soft Favonius, which at intervals

Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but

Lulling the slaves of interest to repose

With that mild, pitying gaze? Oh, I would look

In thy dear beam till every bond of sense

Became enamoured —