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100
SONG TO THE STARS.
O stars! bright stars! mysterious lights
That far above me shine,
In hosts, from yon ethereal heights!
Your Maker, still, is mine.
And while so small a speck I seem
As ye may scarce discern,
The flame in me will live and beam,
When ye have ceased to burn.
That far above me shine,
In hosts, from yon ethereal heights!
Your Maker, still, is mine.
And while so small a speck I seem
As ye may scarce discern,
The flame in me will live and beam,
When ye have ceased to burn.
Ye distant stars, how vast the sum
Of days,—of months, and years,
Your holy radiance takes, to come
To our dim vale of tears!
But I, when once I burst the shroud
That holds me pinioned here,
More swift than lightning from the cloud,
Shall pass your loftiest sphere.
Of days,—of months, and years,
Your holy radiance takes, to come
To our dim vale of tears!
But I, when once I burst the shroud
That holds me pinioned here,
More swift than lightning from the cloud,
Shall pass your loftiest sphere.
Before my King I then shall stand,
And see him eye to eye,
Who shed you, sparkling, from his hand,
With gems to set the sky.
Around his throne I then shall see
The heavenly glories pour,
When earth and time have done with me,
And ye shall beam no more.
And see him eye to eye,
Who shed you, sparkling, from his hand,
With gems to set the sky.
Around his throne I then shall see
The heavenly glories pour,
When earth and time have done with me,
And ye shall beam no more.
101
Yet, stars! bright stars! while still I tread
This darksome, thorny vale,
O, let not o'er my pilgrim head
Your hallowed lustre fail!
By this my spirit lifts her wing,
'Mid damps, and dust, and shade,
And mounts an evening hymn to sing,
Because the stars were made.
This darksome, thorny vale,
O, let not o'er my pilgrim head
Your hallowed lustre fail!
By this my spirit lifts her wing,
'Mid damps, and dust, and shade,
And mounts an evening hymn to sing,
Because the stars were made.
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