 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
83
THE STARS.
Far-flaming stars, ye sentinels of Space,Patient and silent ministers around
Your Queen, the moon, whose melancholy face
Seems ever pale with pity and grief profound
For sinful Earth,—I, a poor groveller here,
A captive eagle chain'd to this dull ground,
Look up and love your light in hope and fear;
Hope, that among your myriad host is one,
A kingdom for my spirit, a bright place
Where I shall reign when this short race is run,
An heir of joy, and glory's mighty son!
Yet, while I hope, the fear will freeze my brain—
What if indeed for worthless me remain
No waiting sceptre, no predestined throne?
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |