So fair thy pensile beauty burns When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns To chambers brighter than the rose; To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love So kind a star thou seem'st to be, Sure some enamour'd orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love's delicious witchery. O! sacred to the fall of day Queen of propitious stars, appear, And early rise, and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers, that well may court An angel's feet to tread them down:-- Shine on her sweetly scented road Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:-- Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline In converse sweet to wander far-- O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Ruling Star! _T. Campbell_ CCXXXII _TO THE NIGHT_ Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear Which make thee terrible and dear,-- Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray Star-inwrought; Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out: Then wander o'er city and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand-- Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?--And I replied No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, belovéd Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! _P. B. Shelley_ CCXXXIII _TO A DISTANT FRIEND_ Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?