The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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A SHOOTING STAR. |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
224
A SHOOTING STAR.
“An ignis fatuus gleam of love.”—Byron.
A shooting Star!—the dim blue night
Gleamed where the wanderer went,
For it flung a stream of gushing light
Around its bright ascent.
I saw it fade!—in cold and cloud
The young light fleeted by,
And the shrill night-wind whistled loud,
As darkness spread her solemn shroud
Over the midnight sky.
Gleamed where the wanderer went,
For it flung a stream of gushing light
Around its bright ascent.
I saw it fade!—in cold and cloud
The young light fleeted by,
And the shrill night-wind whistled loud,
As darkness spread her solemn shroud
Over the midnight sky.
Thou Maiden of the secret spell,
Star of the soul, farewell, farewell!
E'en such has been thy lovely light,
So calmly keen, so coldly bright;
A meteor, seen and worshipped only
To leave a lonely heart more lonely.
The Star hath set!—the spell is broken;
And thou hast left behind no token—
No token, lovely one, to me,
Of what thou art, or art to be;
Except one dear and cherished thought
In Memory's sunless caverns wrought,
One moonlight vision, one sweet shade,
Quick to appear, and slow to fade,
A warm and silent recollection,
The fancy's dream, the heart's affection.
Star of the soul, farewell, farewell!
E'en such has been thy lovely light,
So calmly keen, so coldly bright;
A meteor, seen and worshipped only
To leave a lonely heart more lonely.
The Star hath set!—the spell is broken;
And thou hast left behind no token—
No token, lovely one, to me,
Of what thou art, or art to be;
Except one dear and cherished thought
In Memory's sunless caverns wrought,
225
Quick to appear, and slow to fade,
A warm and silent recollection,
The fancy's dream, the heart's affection.
Bright be thy lot in other years!—
Fill high the cup of wine;
In all the pain of hopes and fears
I will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine.
Yet often in my waking slumbers
Thy voice shall speak its magic numbers,
And I shall think on that dark brow
On which my fancy gazes now,
And sit in reverie lone and long
To muse on that Italian song.
Fill high the cup of wine;
In all the pain of hopes and fears
I will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine.
Yet often in my waking slumbers
Thy voice shall speak its magic numbers,
And I shall think on that dark brow
On which my fancy gazes now,
And sit in reverie lone and long
To muse on that Italian song.
And thou, perhaps, in happier times,
And fairer scenes, and warmer climes,
Wilt think of one who would not dim
With aught of care that wit and whim,—
Of one who oft, in other years,
Fills high the cup of wine,
Because, in all his hopes and fears,
He will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine!
And fairer scenes, and warmer climes,
Wilt think of one who would not dim
With aught of care that wit and whim,—
Of one who oft, in other years,
Fills high the cup of wine,
Because, in all his hopes and fears,
He will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine!
March 15, 1822.
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |