The Evening Star.

A poem by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Hail, pensile gem, that thus can softly gild
The starry coronal of quiet eve!
What frost-work fabrics man shall vainly build
Ere thou art doomed thy heavenly post to leave!

Bright star! thou seem'st to me a blest retreat,
The wearied pilgrim's paradise of rest;
I love to think long-parted friends shall meet,
Blissful reunion! in thy tranquil breast.

I saw thee shine when life with me was young,
And fresh as fleet-winged time's infantile hour,
When Hope her treacherous chaplet 'round me flung,
And daily twined a new-created flower.

I saw thee shine while yet the sacred smile
Of home and kindred round my path would play,
But Time, who loves our fairest joys to spoil,
Destined this hour of bloom to swift decay.

The buds, that then were wreathed around my heart,
Now breathe their hallowed sweetness there no more;
'Twas thine to see them one by one depart,
And yet thou shinest brightly as before.

So, when this bosom, that 'mid all its woes
Has longed thy little port of rest to win,
In the calm grave shall find at last repose,
Thou'lt beam as fair as though I ne'er had been.

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