Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/126

126  And Bacchus, proud of Autumn's crown Red from the vintage lays him down, But thou, blest Sire, without their care Dost reap the fruit they all prepare.

 

She sat upon the pile by her dead lord, And in her full, dark eye, and shining hair Youth revell'd.—The glad murmur of the crowd Applauding her consent to the dread doom, And the hoarse chanting of infuriate priests She heeded not, for her quick ear had caught An infant's wail.—Feeble and low that moan, Yet it was answer'd in her heaving heart, For the Mimosa in its shrinking fold From the rude pressure, is not half so true, So tremulous, as is a mother's soul Unto her wailing babe.—There was such wo In her imploring aspect,—in her tones Such thrilling agony, that even the hearts Of the flame-kindlers soften'd, and they laid The famish'd infant on her yearning breast. There with his tear-wet cheek he lay and drew Plentiful nourishment from that full fount Of infant happiness,—and long he prest With eager lip the chalice of his joy.— And then his little hands he stretch'd to grasp His mother's flower-wove tresses, and with smile And gay caress embraced his bloated sire,— 