Written for the dinner given to Charles DICKENS
by the young men of Boston, February 1, 1842
The stars their early vigils keep,
The silent hours are near,
When drooping eyes forget to weep,âÂ
Yet still we linger here;
And whatâÂthe passing churl may askâÂ
Can claim such wondrous power,
That Toil forgets his wonted task,
And Love his promised hour?
The Irish harp no longer thrills,
Or breathes a fainter tone;
The clarion blast from Scotlandâs hills,
Alas! no more is blown;
And Passionâs burning lip bewails
Her Haroldâs wasted fire,
Still lingering oâer the dust that veils
The Lord of Englandâs lyre.
But grieve not oâer its broken strings,
Nor think its soul hath died,
While yet the lark at heavenâs gate sings,
As once oâer Avonâs side;
While gentle summer sheds her bloom,
And dewy blossoms wave,
Alike oâer Julietâs storied tomb
And Nellyâs nameless grave.
Thou glorious island of the sea!
Though wide the wasting flood
That parts our distant land from thee,
We claim thy generous blood;
Nor oâer thy far horizon springs
One hallowed star of fame,
But kindles, like an angelâs wings,
Our western skies in flame!