Pale star, if star thou be, that art
So fain to shine, though far apart
From all thy stately peers;
Thou whom the eye can scarce discern—
Oh! who hath set thee there to burn
Among the spheres?
Thou com'st too late: the firmament
Is full, and thou wast never meant
For yonder gorgeous steep;
The night hath counted all her pearls,
And, pillow'd on her casket, furls
Her wings in sleep.
The night needs not thy tardy ray;
Thou canst not usher in the day,
Nor make the twilight fair;
What sailor turns to thee at sea?
What mourner doth look up to thee
In his despair?
Mournful or glad, no eye shall chance
To light on thee; no curious glance
Thy motions shall discern;
No lonely pilgrim pause to catch
Thy parting ray, nor lover watch
For thy return.
Oh! leave the world that loves thee not—
For who shall mark the vacant spot?
Oh! drop into the cloud
That waits to take thee out of sight,
Beyond the glare of yonder bright
And chilly crowd!
"I may not, if I would, return
Into the dark, or cease to burn
My spark of light divine:
For he that in my lamp distils
The sacred oil, he surely wills
That I should shine.
"I fret not at the blaze of spheres,
The distant splendor that endears
The night to men; but strive—
Finding strange bliss in perfect calm—
To keep with these few drops of balm
My flame alive.
"It may be that some vagrant world,
Or aimless atom, toss'd and whirl'd
Through windy tracts of space,
Perceives by me the Hand that tends
It ever, and the goal that ends
Its tedious race.
"I know not: me this only care
Concerns, that I for ever bear
My silver lamp on high,
Nor lift to God a laggard flame,
Because on earth I cannot claim
A partial eye."