Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/84

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, whom the world with heartless intercourse Hath wearied, and thy spirit's hoarded gold Coldly impoverished, and with husks repaid, Turn hither. 'Tis a quiet resting-place, Silent, yet peopled well. Here may'st thou hold Communion eloquent, and undismayed, Even with the greatest of the ancient earth, Sages, and sires of science. These shall gird And sublimate thy soul, until it soar Above the elements, and view with scorn The thraldom of an hour. Doth thy heart bleed, And is there none to heal,—no comforter? Turn to the mighty dead. They shall unlock Full springs of sympathy, and with cool hand Compress thy fevered brow. The poet's sigh From buried ages on thine ear shall steal, Like that sweet harp which soothed the mood of Saul. The cloistered hero, and the throneless king, In stately sadness shall admonish thee How Hope hath dealt with man. A map of woe The martyr shall unfold,—till in his pangs Pity doth merge all memory of thine own. Perchance unceasing care, or thankless toil Do vex thy spirit, and sharp thorns press deep Into the naked nerve. Still, hither come, And close thy door upon the clamouring crowd, Though for a moment. Grave and glorious shades