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The Lost Pleiad

NOT in the sky,
Where it was seen		
So long in eminence of light serene,—		
Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave,		
Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep,
Though beautiful in green		
And crystal, its great caves of mystery,—
Shall the bright watcher have
Her place, and, as of old, high station keep!		
 	
Gone! gone!
Oh! nevermore, 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 again appear,	
With the sweet-loving certainty of light,		
Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep!		

The upward-looking shepherd on the hills		
Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks,		
He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze,	
Gladding his gaze,—
And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,		
Guiding him homeward o’er the perilous ways!		
How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze,		
Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills	
The sorrowful vault!—how lingers, in the hope that night		
May yet renew the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!
 	
And lone,
Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone,	
Brood the once happy circle of bright stars:
How should they dream, until her fate was known,		
That they were ever confiscate to death?
That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars,		
And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,	
That they should fall from high;
Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die,		
All their concerted springs of harmony
Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone!		

Ah! still the strain	
Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky;		
The sister stars, lamenting in their pain
That one of the selectest ones must die,—		
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!		
Alas! ’t is ever thus the destiny.	
Even Rapture’s song hath evermore a tone		
Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone.		
The hope most precious is the soonest lost,		
The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost.		
Are not all short-lived things the loveliest?	
And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky,		
Look they not ever brightest, as they fly
From the lone sphere they blest!
William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]