Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/234

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are thy slumbers, baby. Gentle gales Do lift the curtaining foliage o'er thy head, And nested birds sing lullaby; and flowers That form the living broidery of thy couch Shed fresh perfume. He, too, whose guardian eye Pondereth thy features with such true delight, And faithful semblance of parental care; Counting his master's darling as his own, Should aught upon thy helpless rest intrude, Would show a lion's wrath. And when she comes, Thy peasant-mother, from her weary toil, Thy shout will cheer her, and thy little arms Entwine her sunburnt neck, with joy as full As infancy can feel. They who recline In royalty's proud cradle, lulled with strains Of warbling lute, and watched by princely eyes, And wrapt in golden tissue, share perchance, No sleep so sweet as thine. Is it not thus With us, the larger children? Gorgeous robes, And all the proud appliances of wealth Touch not the heart's content: but he is blest, Though clad in humble garb, who peaceful greets The smile of nature, with a soul of love.