Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/56

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that Book,—o'er which, from ancient time, Sad penitence hath poured the prayerful breath, And meek devotion bowed with joy sublime, And Nature armed her for the strife of death, And trembling Hope renewed her wreath divine, And Faith an anchor gained:—that holy Book is thine.

Behold the Book,—whose sacred truths to spread Christ's heralds toil beneath a foreign sky, Pouring its blessings o'er the heathen's head, A martyr-courage kindling in their eye. Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine, As glows the arch of Heaven:—that holy Book is thine.

Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye, Where plants of peace in bloom celestial grow, Here breathe to Mercy's ear the contrite sigh, And bid the soul's unsullied fragrance flow, To Him who shuts the rose at even-tide, And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide.

May Heaven's pure Spirit touch thy youthful heart, And guide thy feet through life's eventful lot, That when from this illusive scene I part, And in my grave lie mouldering and forgot, This my first gift, like golden link may join Thee to that angel-band around the throne divine.