Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/134

134 And from the student's cell, whose midnight lamp Fed on the oil of life,—they come to wake Our lingering gratitude.— And one I mark Amid that band, whose brief and bright career, Bold Sparta in her better days had claim'd With stern and lofty joy.—Ask ye what thoughts Convulsed his soul,—when his dear, native shores Throng'd with the imagery of lost delight Gleam'd on his darkening eye,—while the hoarse wave Utter'd his death-dirge,—and no hand of love Might yield its tender, trembling ministry?— A prayer was there, for her who ruled his heart,— And for his babes that thrilling agony Which none but parents feel.—Yet deeper grief Still rankled there,—his country's wrongs and woes Clung to the riven heart-string,—for he knew Whose voice had sworn to be the widow's stay And orphan's refuge;—so the patriot sigh Heaved in that dying bosom,—when the tear Of husband and of father was exhaled.— —Flock'd there around his couch in soothing dreams Mid that last agony, no cherish'd form Of kindred or of friend?—Came not his Sire Thither with hoary temples, bending low In speechless sorrow,—Hancock, firm of soul,— Great Adams, dauntless in the righteous cause.— Or Otis,—whose electric eloquence Was like the ethereal flash that quench'd its spire Deep in his bosom?—Breathed not Warren's voice In fervent whisper to that parting soul, "Wait,—wait my brother!"—while he proudly rush'd