Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/282

Rh I hear his eloquence—but deeper still, And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge O'er the hoarse wave. "All that we boast of man, Is as the flower of grass." Farewell—Farewell! Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great And good of every nation. Yea!—pass on Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws Unholy shadow o'er the heaven-warmed breast, Doth melt to nothingness—and every surge Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths, Earth's charity was drowned, is sweetly lost In the broad ocean of eternal love.