Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/253

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guide thee artist! Though thy skill Can make the enthusiast's passion tear, And catch expression's faintest thrill, What power shall prompt thy pencil here?

She hath no eye—God quenched its beam, No ear—though thunder's trump be blown, No speech—her spirit's voiceless stream Flows dark, unfathomed and unknown.

Yet hath she joys, though none may know Their germ, their impulse, or their power. And oft her kindling features glow In meditation's lonely hour,

Or when unfolding blossoms breathe Their fragrance 'neath a vernal sky, Or feeling weaves its wild-flower wreath As some remembered friend draws nigh,

Then doth the heart its lore reveal Though lip and eye are sealed the while, And then do wildering graces steal To paint their language on her smile.

For still the undying soul may teach Without a glance, a tone, a sigh,