Thomas Campbell
Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free,
If any star shed peace, tis thou
That send'st it from above.
Appearing when heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies
Whilst the landscape's odors rise.
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse.
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.
LYKE as a ship, that through the Ocean wyde,
by conduct of some star doth make her way,
whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde,
out of her course doth wander far astray.
So I whose star, that wont with her bright ray,
me to direct, with cloudes is ouer-cast,
doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay,
through hidden perils round about me plast.
Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past,
My Helice the lodestar of my lyfe
will shine again, and looke on me at last,
with louely light to cleare my cloudy grief.
Till then I wander carefull comfortlesse,
in secret sorrow and sad pensiuenesse.
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art---
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors---
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever, ---or else swoon to death．
Look how the pale Queen of the silent night
Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
And he, as long as she is in his sight,
With his full tide is ready her to honor;
But when the silver wagon of the Moon
Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,
And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.
So you, that are the sovereign of my heart,
Have all my joys attending on your will,
My joys low-ebbing when you do depart,
When you return, their tide my heart doth fill.
So as you come and as you do depart,
Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case：
I read it in thy looks, ---thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries．
Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?