Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/195

Rh Though in a wine-cup's narrower round his soul Dissolving sank. Stern Carthage too was proud Of old Hamilcar's son, when from the height Of Alpine cliffs, with vengeful eye she scann'd Her haughty rival. Rome beset the heavens, Even while her veins were bursting, with the shout Of "Io Cæsar!"—On red Sweden's sky A meteor glared, till dire Pultowa quench'd The wild-fire flame. France trembled as she took Her idol on her shoulders, and compell'd Tribute from mightier climes, but the cold blast That swept Siberian pines breathed o'er his brow, Proving he was but clay.— —Behold they died! Those demigods of earth,—and left their fame To ravaged realms, and slaughter'd hecatombs, And widow's tears. But in this western world Which nature in her bosom long conceal'd, As her last, precious gem, a band arose Of nobler heroes. They, no conquest sought, No throne usurp'd, nor vassal homage claim'd, But bade the sceptre, and the crowned head Bow to the righteous cause. Time laid his hand Upon their silver'd brows, and summon'd all Save one, who in the dignity of age Linger'd amid the blessings they had wrought, Crown'd by a nation's thanks.— —To honour's tomb He saw his brethren gather'd, one by one, Yet found they might not die. Amid the haunts Of industry, who o'er his harvest sings,