The sun is bright o'er hill and dale,
And summer's breath is on the gale;
While mirth and jest are heard afar,
I only watch the western star.
What is the pomp of life to me?—
My soul would plume its wings and flee,
To hold communion where night's car
Appears to greet the western star.
Mine are the hours alone—apart—
Mine the pale thoughts—the weary heart—
Long years of stern intestine jar;
Yet seek I still the western star.
It soothes my spirit when I gaze
Upon yon bright lamps as they blaze;
Though friends are fickle, loved ones far,
I worship still the western star!