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Fair stars! upon the brow of night
Ye look, from yonder fields of blue,
Where ye, 'mid melody of light,
Bright wheeling worlds! your way pursue.


Ye never tire,--pure diadems,
The marshalled sentinels on high,
Ye shine, and ever shine, the gems
That fringe the curtain of the sky.


Minstrels are ye--your early song
Followed the Voice Ompnipotent,
When light and music flowed along
Over the spangled firmament.


Ye stars! if aught 'tis yours to know,
Beyond your own returnless bourne,
With pity have ye not below
Glanced on these vales where mortals mourn?


O, as I scan your nightly march,
Your anthems steal upon mine ears;
As sprinkled o'er yon glittering arch,
Ye wake the music of the spheres.


'Tis fancy!--yet the empyrean strains
Impart kind gilead to my breast;
They tell of brighter, fairer plains,
Where troubles cease, where pilgrims rest.