Like those first stars, whose silver beams on high,
     Shining more brightly as the day goes by,
     Most travellers cannot at first descry,
     But eyes that wont to range the evening sky,

     And know celestial lights, do plainly see,
     And gladly hail them, numbering two or three;
     For lore that’s deep must deeply studied be,
     As from deep wells men read star-poetry.

     These stars are never paled, though out of sight,
     But like the sun they shine forever bright;
     Ay, they are suns, though earth must in its flight
     Put out its eyes that it may see their light.

     Who would neglect the least celestial sound,
     Or faintest light that falls on earthly ground,
     If he could know it one day would be found
     That star in Cygnus whither we are bound,
     And pale our sun with heavenly radiance round?

Gradually the village murmur subsided, and we seemed to be embarked on the placid current of our dreams, floating from past to future as silently as one awakes to fresh morning or evening thoughts.  We glided noiselessly down the stream, occasionally driving a pickerel or a bream from the covert of the pads, and the smaller bittern now and then sailed away on sluggish wings from some recess in the shore, or the larger lifted itself out of the long grass at our approach, and carried its precious legs away to deposit them in a place of safety.  The tortoises also rapidly dropped into the water, as our boat ruffled the surface amid the willows, breaking the reflections of the trees.  The banks had passed the height of their beauty, and some of the brighter flowers showed by their faded tints that the season was verging towards the afternoon of the year; but this sombre tinge enhanced their sincerity, and in the still unabated heats they seemed like the mossy brink of some cool well.  The narrow-leaved willow (Salix Purshiana) lay along the surface of the water in masses of light green foliage, interspersed with the large balls of the button-bush.  The small rose-colored polygonum raised its head proudly above the water on either hand, and flowering at this season and in these localities, in front of dense fields of the white species which skirted the sides of the stream, its little streak of red looked very rare and precious.  The pure white blossoms of the arrow-head stood in the shallower parts, and a few cardinals on the margin still proudly surveyed themselves reflected in the water, though the latter, as well as the pickerel-weed, was now nearly out of blossom.  The snake-head, Chelone glabra, grew close to the shore, while a kind of coreopsis, turning its brazen face to the sun, full and rank, and a tall dull red flower, Eupatorium purpureum, or trumpet-weed, formed the rear rank of the fluvial array.  The bright blue flowers of the soap-wort gentian were sprinkled here and there