Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/168

Rh

on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, Who build on the tossing and treacherous main; Toil on, for the wisdom of man ye mock, With your sand-based structures and domes of rock, Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up through the crested wave; Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone, Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king, The turf looks green where the breakers rolled, O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold, The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, And mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark? There are snares enough on the tented field, 'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield, There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up, There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup, There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath, And why need ye sow the floods with death?