Poems by Bernard Barton | ||
268
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Star of the silent hour,
When, in the garden bower,
Flowrets are closing their blooms for the night,
Fain would my vesper lay
Woo thy mild-beaming ray,
Gentle and soft as the day's parting light.
When, in the garden bower,
Flowrets are closing their blooms for the night,
Fain would my vesper lay
Woo thy mild-beaming ray,
Gentle and soft as the day's parting light.
Dews are descending round,
Busy day's dying sound
Fainter and fainter still, sinks on the ear;
Only one singing bird,
One ever fondly heard,
Warbles its melody, soothing and dear.
Busy day's dying sound
Fainter and fainter still, sinks on the ear;
Only one singing bird,
One ever fondly heard,
Warbles its melody, soothing and dear.
The moon hath not risen yet—
Though the proud sun has set,
Few of thy rivals look out from the sky;
Not one bright sparkler there
Could with thy beams compare
Wouldst thou but light up thy splendour on high.
Though the proud sun has set,
Few of thy rivals look out from the sky;
Not one bright sparkler there
Could with thy beams compare
Wouldst thou but light up thy splendour on high.
269
Come forth then, shining one!
Be thou the twilight's sun;
Star of the lover and minstrel, come forth!
Hide not thy gentle rays,
Envy no brighter blaze,
Feeling and Fancy acknowledge thy worth.
Be thou the twilight's sun;
Star of the lover and minstrel, come forth!
Hide not thy gentle rays,
Envy no brighter blaze,
Feeling and Fancy acknowledge thy worth.
Poems by Bernard Barton | ||