Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/191

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What sounds are these?—Why breaks the swelling shout Of music forth, from viol and from trump, Harp, lute and organ,—while the tuneful breath Of man doth lend that melody a soul And bear it high to heaven?—How sweet the voice Of a young nation from her peaceful vales, Praising the God of might!—The chorus fell In gratulation on a patriarch's ear, Who in the bosom of his sylvan home With dignity reposed.—His aged brow Reveal'd that latent energy which glow'd Deep and intense, when for an infant land He pour'd high eloquence, and o'er her spread His Roman shield.—And now he saw her clad In majesty, to awe the subject wave, Sending her teeming thousands toward the west, And breathing from her mountain throne, the strain Of raptured liberty.—There was a thrill Of transport rushing through that aged breast, Which they, whom sloth and luxury have nursed, May never know.—Low bowing on his staff He worshipp'd God,—and spake with kindling eye Of that day's glory,—while the patriot flame Which in his bosom burn'd while life was young, Burst through the frost of years.— —Old Time restored Once more, that fulness of prophetic joy, With which this unborn Jubilee he mark'd Through the long vista of distressful years,