Star of resplendent front! Thy glorious eye
Shines on me still from out yon clouded sky.

Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright,
Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night.

Look thy last on all things lovely,
Every hour—let no night
Seal thy sense in deathly slumber
Till to delight
Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing.

O Night! most beautiful and rare! Thou givest the heavens their holiest hue,
And through the azure fields of air Bring’st down the gentle dew.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

Loveliest of women! heaven is in thy soul, Beauty and virtue shine forever round thee, Bright'ning each other! thou art all divine!

Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now
Goest down in glory! ever beautiful
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou
Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool,
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high
Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky.

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

The moon is still bright;
The lights below the hills are still on;
The sky is still full of stars
Hanging like dreams.

Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.

Oh! sweet and sudden fire that springs
With but a look to light its wings;
How false to say thou needest time
The bright ascent of hope to climb;
A star thou art, that may not be
Reckoned by dull astronomy!

And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

They are all up—the innumerable stars—
And hold their place in heaven. […]
There they stand,
Shining in order, like a living hymn
Written in light, awaking at the breath
Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him
Who made them, with the harmony of spheres.

If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,
Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light,
Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content: — The stars pre-eminent in magnitude,
And they that from the zenith dart their beams,
(Visible though they be to half the earth,
Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness)
Are yet of no diviner origin,
No purer essence, than the one that burns,
Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge
Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem
Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps,
Among the branches of the leafless trees.
All are the undying offspring of one Sire:
Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed,
Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content.