Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/118

Rh A race of pale-browed men were nigh, They were our country's foes. Thy wounded sire was borne By tyrant force away, Thy brothers from our cabin torn While in my blood I lay.

I watched for their return Upon the rocky shore Till night's red planets ceased to burn, And the long rains were o'er; Till seeds their hand had sown A ripened fruitage bore, The billows echoed to my moan, Yet they returned no more.

But thou art slumbering deep, And to my wildest cry, When pierced with agony I weep, Dost render no reply. Daughter! my youthful pride, The idol of my eye, Why didst thou leave thy mother's side Beneath these sands to lie?

Long o'er the hopeless grave Where her lost darling slept, Invoking gods that could not save That Pagan mourner wept: Oh! for some voice of power To sooth her bursting sighs, "There is a resurrection hour!    Thy daughter's dust shall rise!"

Christians!—Ye hear the cry From heathen Afric's strand,