Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/204

204 Matured by labour;—for he never sought To hoodwink discipline,—and lure the mind With false indulgence from that toil severe By which great men are great.— —This little mound, With velvet turf besprent, were better gemm'd With snow-drops white.—A beauteous infant sleeps Here with its mother.—O'er its soft blue eye And o'er the slumber of its parted lips Rose-tinted,—such a holy smile would steal As seem'd not of earth's prompting.—Said it not That the bright treasure in that chrystal vase Should soon be claim'd of God?— —And is it so!— That to my place of birth, where every germ Of hope was planted, I may never come But grief chastise the joy?—When last the morn Spread forth her purple robe, I sought a friend Who on my childhood and my youth would smile With affable regard, cheering a heart That often sigh'd in loneliness.—Fair plants Still deck'd her garden,—but she was not there To nurse their sweets.—Her well known mansion rose In wonted hospitality,—but she Welcomed me not.—They pointed to the tomb, And bade me seek her there. —And does thy head Rest with the ancient of thy noble house Immured in silence?—Many a tear will fall Bearing the answer from the sons of need, Whom hungry, thou hast fed,—uncover'd, clothed,— And sorrowing, comforted.