“The Star” by Isaac Taylor:

Twas midnight: through the lattice, wreathed With woodbine, many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds that keep Their odour to themselves all day, But, when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about.

The warmth, the freshness, and the light, And the transparent green unite To make the feeling, as we pass, Lingering and lovely; and, alas! The embodied _sweet, that dwells in these, Tortures and teases and never pleases, But, like love’s tart allurements, gives More pain than Paradise receives.

Mid scattered thickets o’er the dale, Some pastoral home, a sparry grot, (For such were innocent Nature’s haunts), Peeped out beneath the spreading boughs The curious roof and woodbine boughs, Or in the parting of the trees, Which gave the mansion to the breeze, A leafy dwelling rose.

The sound of water, the hum of bees, The rustling leaves and the breathing trees, The fresh, sweet brooks of the greenwood free, Of these they have none,—but where are they? There are jutting rocks of the mountain’s pride, And a dark, cold tarn is yawning there; The fountain fell with a murmuring sound, And the groves were mute, and the mountain frowned.

From the lake to the little rill it went, And down to the moon-lighted main it sent A body of light as onward it went; And the shiver and sound of the cold descent Were heard on the lonely shore.

Here, at the water’s playful sides, To the cavern’s brink the shepherd guides His fainting flock to drink. But here the scene, as by magic, changed, And the deep, full bay of the lake deranged Its loveliness far and wide, Where wood and mountain, crag and dale, With cliffs of crystal and rocks of pearl, Stood intermingled and calmly smiled On the beauty of a little world.