Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/157

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I pluck'd a fair white Rose, and stole To lay it by her side, And thought strange sleep enchain'd her soul, For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in wo    And gaid a lonely prayer, Yet, still my temples seem'd to glow As if that hand were there.

Years fled—and left me childhood's joy, Gay sports and pastimes dear, I rose a wild and wayward boy, Who scorn'd the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed, Yet, ere at night I slept, That soft hand made my bosom bleed, And down I fell and wept.

Youth came—the props of Virtue reel'd!— But oft at day's decline, A marble touch my brow congeal'd—    Blest Mother!—was it thine?—

In foreign lands I travell'd wide, My pulse was bounding high, Vice spread her meshes at my side, And pleasure lured my eye;—

Yet, still that hand, so soft and cold, Maintain'd its mystic sway, As when amid my curls of gold With gentle force it lay.