Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/306

270 LXXXVII.

He is an evening reveller, who makes

His life an infancy, and sings his fill;

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes

Starts into voice a moment, then is still.

There seems a floating whisper on the hill,

But that is fancy—for the Starlight dews

All silently their tears of Love instil,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse

Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

LXXXVIII.

Ye Stars! which are the poetry of Heaven!

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate

Of men and empires,—'tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you; for ye are

A Beauty and a Mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar,

That Fortune,—Fame,—Power,—Life, have named themselves a Star.