Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/259

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wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep, And through its silken fringe Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep, Gleams forth with azure tinge.

With what a smile of gladness meek Thy radiant brow is drest, While fondly to a mother's cheek Thy lip and hand are prest.

That little hand! what prescient wit Its history may discern, When time its tiny bones hath knit With manhood's sinews stern?

The artist's pencil shall it guide? Or spread the adventurous sail? Or guide the plough with rustic pride, And ply the sounding flail?

Though music's labyrinthine maze, With dexterous ardour rove, And weave those tender, tuneful lays That beauty wins from love?

Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome, With patient toil turn o'er? Or trim the lamp in classic dome, Till midnight's watch be o'er?