Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
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 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
XXIII. THE STRANGER'S SONG.
“Star!—brightest thou of all that beam
O'er nightly hill, on wood and stream!—
Fair is thy light o'er wilds afar,
And lovely is thy silence, star!
How calm thou art! while cloud and forest rave,
And tempests wildly wing the whirling wave.
O'er nightly hill, on wood and stream!—
Fair is thy light o'er wilds afar,
And lovely is thy silence, star!
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And tempests wildly wing the whirling wave.
“What hand unseen hath rent thy shroud?
Black rolls aloft the broken cloud:
Lo! Care walks here, with troubled eye,
To chase thee through the hurried sky!
Why? what art thou? A world of woe, like this,
A world of weeping toil, and fleeting bliss,
Black rolls aloft the broken cloud:
Lo! Care walks here, with troubled eye,
To chase thee through the hurried sky!
Why? what art thou? A world of woe, like this,
A world of weeping toil, and fleeting bliss,
“Where wretches curse their hour of birth,
And whence they eye the distant earth,
(A star to them, as thou to me,)
And,—frantic in their misery,—
Wish they could mount, at once, the reinless wind,
And leave, at once, their woes and thee behind!
And whence they eye the distant earth,
(A star to them, as thou to me,)
And,—frantic in their misery,—
Wish they could mount, at once, the reinless wind,
And leave, at once, their woes and thee behind!
“Would I were as the dust I tread!
Welcome, thou cold and wormy bed!
That me no more might vice enthrall,
Nor folly tempt to climb and fall,
Nor passion wild her unresisting slave
Fling, careless, o'er the rock, and wilder'd wave.
Welcome, thou cold and wormy bed!
That me no more might vice enthrall,
Nor folly tempt to climb and fall,
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Fling, careless, o'er the rock, and wilder'd wave.
“Then, mother earth! to this sad heart
Th' envenom'd fang no more would dart!
And still, with many a cherish'd tear,
A form of grace might visit here,
And oft bend o'er my dust, and letter'd stone,
Like storm-dwarf'd yew tree, mournful and alone.
Th' envenom'd fang no more would dart!
And still, with many a cherish'd tear,
A form of grace might visit here,
And oft bend o'er my dust, and letter'd stone,
Like storm-dwarf'd yew tree, mournful and alone.
“Star! would night's queen then haste to streak,
Through widow'd locks, a wither'd cheek,
And fondly, on her forehead fair,
In shadow, paint her drooping hair?
Oh! for repose! my soul with woe is press'd
Down, down to earth, and yearns to be at rest.”
Through widow'd locks, a wither'd cheek,
And fondly, on her forehead fair,
In shadow, paint her drooping hair?
Oh! for repose! my soul with woe is press'd
Down, down to earth, and yearns to be at rest.”
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |