Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/215

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crept forth to die among the trees, They have sweet voices that I love to hear, Sweet, lute-like voices. They have been as friends In my adversity—when sick and faint I stretched me in their shadow all day long; They were not weary of me. They sent down Soft summer breezes fraught with pitying sighs To fan my blanching cheek. Their lofty boughs Pointed with thousand fingers to the sky, And round their trunks the wild vine fondly clung, Nursing her clusters, and they did not check Her clasping tendrils, nor deceive her trust, Nor blight her blossoms, and go towering up In their cold stateliness, while on the earth She sank to die. But thou, rejoicing bird, Why pourest thou such a rich and mellow lay On my dull ear? Poor bird!—I gave thee crumbs, And fed thy nested little ones; so thou (Unlike to man!) thou dost remember it. O mine own race!—how often have ye sate Gathered around my table, shared my cup, And worn my raiment, yea! far more than this, Been sheltered in my bosom, but to turn And lift the heel against me, and cast out My bleeding heart in morsels to the world, Like catering cannibals.