Henry Kirke White (1785–1806)

WHEN marshal’d on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky;

One Star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner’s wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem;

But one alone the Saviour speaks,

It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud,—the night was dark,

The ocean yawn’d—and rudely blow’d

The wind that toss’d my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;

When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease;

And through the storm and dangers’ thrall

It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor’d—my peril’s o’er,

I’ll sing, first in night’s diadem,

For ever, and for evermore,

The Star!—The Star of Bethlehem!