Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley. In Three Vols |
 | I, II, III. |
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BRIGHT STARS. |
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 | Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems |  |
239
BRIGHT STARS.
Bright Stars! slow blossoming on the lap of Night,
Fair flowers of Heaven, all made of smiles and light,
How shine ye strongly on the uplifted eye,
How proudly, how illustrious-dazzlingly.
Fair flowers of Heaven, all made of smiles and light,
How shine ye strongly on the uplifted eye,
How proudly, how illustrious-dazzlingly.
How do ye gleam forth from the lap of Night,
In trembling pomp, in luxury of light,
And make the darkness beautiful in Heaven,
Whence all the sterner gloomier shades are driven?
In trembling pomp, in luxury of light,
And make the darkness beautiful in Heaven,
Whence all the sterner gloomier shades are driven?
Our World and ye are brethren—what then we,
Who lowliest wanderers on its surface be?
Worms, clay, and ashes!—who have ever been
Dust in the balance—specks upon the scene!
Who lowliest wanderers on its surface be?
Worms, clay, and ashes!—who have ever been
Dust in the balance—specks upon the scene!
240
Oh! what are we, compared with those proud spheres,
Which count milleniums of our fleeting years,
Those comrades of our own Majestic World,
Whose glories nightly stream for us unfurled?
Which count milleniums of our fleeting years,
Those comrades of our own Majestic World,
Whose glories nightly stream for us unfurled?
Look round on our bright Earth! learn, learn from thence
The mystery of their dread magnificence!
Could we as near their mighty forms behold,
What splendours then should to our view unfold!
The mystery of their dread magnificence!
Could we as near their mighty forms behold,
What splendours then should to our view unfold!
But from unthought of distance must we trace
Your outlines pure and fine—ye Kings of Space!
And yet how beauteous—how sublime appears
The marshalled army of the outshining spheres!
Your outlines pure and fine—ye Kings of Space!
And yet how beauteous—how sublime appears
The marshalled army of the outshining spheres!
And what is Man—the shadow and the reed,
With these contrasted?—what is Man indeed?
The floating sand, borne swiftly down the stream!
The fleeting mote, that haunts the sunny beam!
With these contrasted?—what is Man indeed?
The floating sand, borne swiftly down the stream!
The fleeting mote, that haunts the sunny beam!
241
But, Oh! his Bosom's deepest shrine within,
Uncrushed by suffering, and unquenched by sin,
There lives a spark, to which their mightiest blaze
Is as the meteor fading from the gaze.
Uncrushed by suffering, and unquenched by sin,
There lives a spark, to which their mightiest blaze
Is as the meteor fading from the gaze.
A Spark, to which those congregated fires
Are as the taper, when its gleam expires;
A Spark, from the All-enkindling Glory caught—
To which ten thousand hosts of Suns are nought.
Are as the taper, when its gleam expires;
A Spark, from the All-enkindling Glory caught—
To which ten thousand hosts of Suns are nought.
Proud Worlds, that line the illumined depths of night,
Ye splendent shadows of the Light of Light!
How shine ye down upon the uplifted eye—
How brightly—how illustrious-dazzlingly!
Ye splendent shadows of the Light of Light!
How shine ye down upon the uplifted eye—
How brightly—how illustrious-dazzlingly!
But, Oh! the immortal Soul, though shrined in clay,
Could well eclipse ye with its faintest ray:
Creation, with its countless worlds of fire,
Is not so precious to the All-forming Sire!
Could well eclipse ye with its faintest ray:
Creation, with its countless worlds of fire,
Is not so precious to the All-forming Sire!
242
Majestic Worlds!—your shrines are arks august,
Yet must they yield to temples built of dust!
For there the Eternal makes His dread abode!
Thrones of His Glory ye!—these—thrones of God!
Yet must they yield to temples built of dust!
For there the Eternal makes His dread abode!
Thrones of His Glory ye!—these—thrones of God!
Proud Stars! that fret the ethereal vault of Night,
Still burn, still blaze with ever-kindling Light!
Still shine ye—stream ye on the uplifted eye,
Thus brightly—thus illustrious-dazzlingly!
Still burn, still blaze with ever-kindling Light!
Still shine ye—stream ye on the uplifted eye,
Thus brightly—thus illustrious-dazzlingly!
The Soul can meet those starry looks of Light,
Armed with its own yet more victorious might—
Meet them half way—yet move not from its place,
Since in itself it spreads—the Space of Space!
Armed with its own yet more victorious might—
Meet them half way—yet move not from its place,
Since in itself it spreads—the Space of Space!
Stars!—they are dust, compared with conscious Souls!
Though each receives for ever, as it rolls,
Rays of His wide showered glory—splendour-shod—
Thrones of His Glory these—those Thrones of God!
Though each receives for ever, as it rolls,
Rays of His wide showered glory—splendour-shod—
Thrones of His Glory these—those Thrones of God!
| Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems | |