The stars shine sweetly in the skies,
Where, hours ago, they gently stole,
Even as a lady's lovely eyes
Look in upon her lover's soul:
The murmur of the mighty river,
Rolls on, a melancholy tune;
Over the eastern mountains quiver
The first rays of the wasted moon;
For daylight cometh, ah, too soon,
To end a pleasant night that ought to last for ever.

In the dim starlight, all around,
Sleeps each deserted, lonely street,
Save when, at intervals, resound
Some watcher's melancholy feet.
High up in heaven one lovely star
Pours in upon my soul its light;
As, nested from the world afar,
A dove, with eyes clear, fond, and bright,
Gazes, with earnest, mute delight,
Upon its young, that all its life and treasure are.

It seems as if the stars could hear,
So soft, so still, so calm it is,
Each footfall, that, distinct and clear,
Rings through the city's passages.
The wild excitement of the day,
Calmed by this sweet night's gentle power,
Like a strange dream has passed away,
And now at this late, silent hour,
The heart expands, as does a flower,
Fed by the light and dew of a soft morn in May.

The snows of Time fall cold upon
The fountains that well up within
The boyish heart, and mock the sun
With their bright, bubbling, merry din.
There comes no joyous summer-rain,
That can unlock these frozen springs;
Nor can the southern breeze again
Release them with its sunny wings:
The icy mass that round them clings,
Through life's long winter grows, and growing doth remain.

Now the thick stars grow pale, and fade
Before the moon's unclouded brow,
Whose light, encroaching on gray shade,
Sleeps like a drift of mountain-snow.
How trivial now appear the fret
And fever of this busy life!
The cares and troubles that beset,
The madness of this party-strife,
Wherewith all hearts are now so rife,
That even I, who blame, feel the wild fever yet.

But tree and leaf and bud and flower
Speak with a language eloquent;
And soothed by them and this sweet hour,
I feel how vainly life is spent;
How wretched and degrading all
This toil for power and office is,
In which one needs must crouch and crawl
If he expect or hope success;
The unwashed feet of thousands kiss,
And grovelling before strange idols prostrate fall.

How little do mankind commune
With NATURE, or the truths regard,
Whereof, at all times, night or noon,
Her student reaps a rich reward!
We scarcely glance at that great book,
Whose bright leaves ever open lie;
Nor therein for instruction look,
With calm and philosophic eye.
Alas! that we should live and die
As if mankind no more of aught divine partook.

Out on this wretched party-war!
Where the best weapons, trick, chicane,
And perjury and cunning are,—
Its picked troops, scoundrelism's train,—
Where baser men outweigh the best,
Lies always over truth prevail,
Wisdom by numbers is oppressed,
Knavery at Virtue dares to rail,
Slanders the brightest name assail;—
Victory in such a war bumble's the victor's crest.

Henceforth, myself I dedicate
To other service. Let me read
Thy pages, NATURE!—though so late
Thy voice of reprimand I heed.
From bud and leaf, from flower and bloom,
From every fair created thing,
Thy teachings will my soul illume,
So long in darkness slumbering;
That when to Life's bright sunny Spring,
Autumn succeeds, it may not all my hopes entomb.

My children, with their innocent looks,
My home, with modest, humble cheer,
My old, familiar, friendly books,
Companions faithful and sincere?—
What want I more, if I am wise,
To cheer me on my quiet way?
Honor and fame no more I prize,—
Let those THAT harvest reap who may.—
But lo! Dawn heralds blushing Day,
And now, contentedly, I close my weary eyes.