Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/263

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hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole In her soft ministry around thy bed, Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed, And pearled with dews. She bade bright Summer bring Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come To do thee homage—mother of our chief! Fit homage—such as honoureth him who pays. Methinks we see thee—as in olden time— Simple in garb—majestic and serene, Unmoved by pomp or circumstance—in truth Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal Repressing vice, and making folly grave. Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste Life in inglorious sloth—to sport awhile Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave, There fleet, like the ephemeron, away, Building no temple in her children's hearts, Save to the vanity and pride of life Which she had worshipped.