Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/109

Rh  Methought that truth In every tongue, and dialect, and tone, Peal'd o'er each region of the rolling globe;— The Simoon breathed it,—and the Earthquake groan'd A hollow, deep response,—the Avalanche Wrote it in terror on a snowy scroll,— The red Volcano belch'd it forth in flames,— Old Ocean bore it on his whelming surge,— And yon, pure, broad, cerulean arch grew dark With death's eternal darts.—But joyous Man To whom kind Heaven the ceaseless warning sent Turn'd to his phantom pleasures, and deferr'd To some convenient hour, the time to die!

 

My dull heart slept. Its panoply was off,— The festal hour had lull'd it, and the dew, Swept from the flowers of brief Prosperity, Fell like an opiate on it. The world's star, Was dominant.—And so it coldly slept Even in the house of God. The wakeful ear, That trusty sentinel, essay'd in vain To arouse its lethargy.—The organ pour'd Such full, exulting melody, so claim'd From all the living one pure hymn of praise, That rapture's flush burn'd on the brighten'd cheek, But on the secret altar of the heart 