The Lost Pleiad

Not in the sky,
Where it was seen,
Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave,
Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep, —
Though green,
And beautiful, its caves of mystery, —
Shall the bright watcher have
A place — and, as of old, high station keep.
Gone, gone!
O, never more to cheer
The mariner who holds his course alone
On the Atlantic, through the weary night,
When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep,
Shall it appear,
With the sweet fixedness of certain light,
Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep.
Vain, vain!
Hopeful most idly then, shall he look forth,
That mariner from his bark —
Howe'er the north
Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lower —
He sees no more that perish'd light again!
And gloomier grows the hour
Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark,
Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.
He looks, — the shepherd on Chaldea's hills,
Tending his flocks, —
And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze,
Gladdening his gaze;
And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,
Guiding him safely home through perilous ways!
How stands he in amaze,
Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills
The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils
Its leaden dews — how chafes he at the night,
Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!
And lone,
Where its first splendours shone,
Shall be that pleasant company of stars:
How should they know that death
Such perfect beauty mars;
And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,
Fallen from on high,
Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die —
AH their concerted springs of harmony,
Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone.
A strain — a mellow strain —
Of wailing sweetness, fill'd the earth and sky;
The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain
That one of the selectest ones must die;
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!
Alas! 'tis ever more the destiny,
The hope, heart-cherish'd, is the soonest lost;
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost:
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest?
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest when they fly
The desolate home they bless'd?