Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/74

Rh

lion loves his own.—The desert sands, High tossed beneath his spurning foot, attest The rage of his bereavement. With hoarse cries Vindictive echoing round the rocky shores The polar bear her slaughtered cub bewails, While with a softer plaint where verdant groves Responsive quiver to the evening breeze, The mother-bird deplores her ravaged nest. The Savage loves his own.—His wind-rocked babe That rudely cradled 'mid the fragrant boughs, Or on its toiling mother's shoulders bound Shrinks not from sun or rain; his hoary sire, And hunting-spear, and forest sports are dear. The Heathen loves his own.—The faithful friend Who by his side the stormy battle dares, The chieftain, at whose nod his life-blood flows, His native earth, and simple hut are dear. The Christian loves his own.—But is his God Content with this, who full of bounty pours His sun-ray on the evil and the good, And like a parent gathereth round his board The thankless with the just? Shall man, who shares This unrequited banquet, sternly bar From his heart's brotherhood a fellow-guest? Shall he within his bosom sternly hide