Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/230

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Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain, Come, warble loud and clear; Alas! alas! you're weeping all, You're sobbing in my ear; Good night—go say the prayer she taught, Beside your little bed, The lips that used to bless you there, Are silent with the dead.

A father's hand your course may guide Amid the thorns of life, His care protect those shrinking plants That dread the storms of strife; But who, upon your infant hearts Shall like that mother write? Who touch the strings that rule the soul? Dear, smitten flock, good night!