Poem by Albert Pike

To the Planet Jupiter

Thou art a radiant and imperial star,
Planet! whose silver crest beams bright, afar
Upon the edge of yonder eastern hill,
That, nightlike, seems a third of heaven to fill.
Thou art most worthy of a poet's song,
One like a king above the common throng;
And yet thou smilest as if I might sing,
Weak as I am, my lyre unused to ring
Among the thousand harps that thrill the world.
The sun's last breath upon the sky has curled,
Flushing the clouds; and now thou hast arisen,
And in the East thy burning eye doth glisten:
Thou whom the ancients held to be a king
Among the gods. As though thou wast a spring
Of inspiration, I would soar and drink
While yet thou lingerest on the mountain's brink.—
Who bade men say that thou, oh silver Peer!
Wast to the moon a servitor, anear
To sit, and watch her eye for messages
Like to the other silver-winged bees,
That swarm around her, when she sits her throne?
Out on the moon! She bringeth storm alone,
At new and full, and every other time;
She turns men's brains, making them madly rhyme,
And rave, and sigh away their weary life;
And shall she be of young adorers rife,
And thou have none?—Nay, one will sing to thee
In rudest strains, bending the humble knee.—
Lo! on the edge of the great Western Plain,
The Star of Love doth lingering remain,
She of the ocean-foam, watching thy look,
As one that gazes on an antique book,
Earnestly reading, in the deep, dead night,
Filching from Time his hours. Ah! sweet delay!
And now she sinks, pursuing the swift day,
Content with thy one glance of answering love:—
Where Venus worships, can I heedless prove?

Now as thou swimmest higher into sight,
Marking the water with a line of light,
On wave and ripple quietly aslant,
Thy influences steal upon the heart,
With a sweet magic and resistless art,
Like the still growth of a young vigorous plant.
The mother, watching by her sleeping child,
Blesses thee, when thy light, serene and mild,
Falls through the lattice on her babe's pale face,
Tinging it with a sweet benignant grace,
Like the white shadow of an angel's wing.
The sick man that has lain for many a day,
And wasted like a lightless flower away,
Blesses thee, too, oh JOVE! when thou dost shine
Upon his face with influence divine,
Soothing his thin, blue eyelids to calm sleep.
The child its peevish murmuring will keep
In its vexed nurse's arms, till thou dost glad
Its eyes, and then it sleeps. The thin and sad
And patient student, closes his worn books
A space or so, to gain from thy kind looks
Refreshment: Prisoners in dungeons pent
Climb to the grates, and there with head upbent
Gaze long at thee; the timid deer awake,
And by thy light ramble through fell and brake,
Whistling their joy to thee, the speckled trout
From under his dark rock comes shooting out,
Turns his quick eye to thee, loves thy soft light,
And sleeps within it; the gray water-plant
Looks up to thee beseechingly, aslant,
And thou dost feed it there beneath the wave.
Even the tortoise crawls from his damp cave,
And feeds wherever, on the dewy grass,
Thy light has lingered: nay, thy mild rays pass
To water-depths, and the small coral-fly
Works cheerfully when flattered by thine eye.
Thou touchest not the rudest heart in vain;
Even the sturdy sailor and hard swain
Are grateful when, after a storm, thine eye
Opens amid torn clouds, and calms the sky.
The lover praises thee, to thy sweet light
Likens his love, so tender and more bright,
And tells his mistress thou dost kindly mock
Her radiant eyes. Thou dost the heart unlock,
With care and woe long dark and comfortless,
So that the wretched thy sweet soothing bless,
And cease to long for quiet in the grave.
The lunatic, that to the moon doth rave,
Sleeps in thy light, and is again himself;
The miser pauses as he counts his pelf,
When through the steel-barred windows flash thy glances,
And even him thy loveliness entrances.
Ah! while thy silver arrows pierce the air,
And, far below thee, all the dark woods, where
The wind sleeps, and the mountains crowned with snow,
And the great Sea, whose pulses come and go,
Are still as death,—ah! bring me back again
The bold and happy heart that blessed me, when
Life was delight; before one hope was veiled
By disappointment. Then my cheek was paled,
Lighted by one pale star! ah, bitter thought,
But not with care;—for late at night and long
I toiled and moiled to gain myself among
Old tomes some knowledge; as indeed I did.
I studied much, and things the wise had hid
In their quaint books I learned; and then I thought
Myself a poet, and I fondly wrought
My boyish feelings into verse, and rained
. The loose leaves on the wind, and so I gained
Some praise, and a slight name.

And then I dreamed,—
Ah, me! how like reality it seemed!—
Of loving and being loved, of eyes that shone,
Bright as the Southern Cross, for me alone;—
But I awoke, the vision fled away,
And round me closed a long, cold winter day,
With frost and sleet, since when my poor feet bled
On the sharp flints:—Ah, Jove! couldst thou but lead
Me back to boyhood for a time, it were
Indeed a gift.

THOU, who didst thus their destiny control,
I worship thee, hoping that in my soul
Thy light may sink. Oh, JOVE, I am full sure,
None feel for thy fair star a love more pure,
Than I. Thou hast been, everywhere, to me
A source of inspiration. I should be
Sleepless, could I not first behold thine orb,
In East or West. Then doth my heart absorb,
Like other withering flowers, thy light and life.
For that neglect which cutteth like a knife,
Thou chill'st not with; unless the azure lake
Of heaven is clouded. Planet! thou wouldst make
Of me, as of thine ancient worshippers,
A poet; but, alas! whatever stirs
My tongue and pen, both are but faint and weak.
Apollo hath not, in some gracious freak,
Inspired me with the spirit of his lyre,
Or touched my soul with his ethereal fire.
So that whatever humble song I sing,
To thee is but a meagre offering.
All I can give is small. Thou wilt not scorn
My all. I give no golden sheaves of corn;
I burn to thee no rich and odorous gums;
I offer up to thee no hecatombs;
I build no altars: 'tis a heart alone;
Such as it is, receive it! 'tis thine own.

1. After the Midnight Cometh Morn
2. Ode to the Mocking-Bird
3. The Fine Arkansas Gentleman
4. The Fall of Poland
5. Every Year

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