Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/194

Rh

In foreign climes the yoke I bore, Stern Slavery's lot I knew, Heaven heard: and toward my native shore, My parents' home, I drew. Where was my hoary sire? They told How soon his race was run, And how he sought his pillow cold, Lamenting for his son.

Shuddering I turned me toward the cot, Which in my crime I left, There was my widowed mother's lot Of sight and joy bereft. But who was bending o'er her bed, With voice like pity's dove? Those were the eyes whose glance I fled— That was my own true love.

The thraldom of my sin was broke, I knelt me by her side, The priest the hallowed words hath spoke, And blest her as my bride. My step, my blinded mother hails, I toil with spirit free, And only in my fireside tales Recal the treacherous sea.