Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/207

Rh  Go to thy rest, pale flower!—The star hath shed His benison upon thy bosom fair, The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head, And weary man forgets his daily care;— Sleep on, my rose! till morning gild the sky, And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye.

 

Occasioned by the death of the last proprietor, of the name of Wyllys, in whose family this estate had remained since the first settlement of the country.

Thou wert the castle of the olden time. Thou solitary pile! the beacon light Of the benighted traveller. Thy lone brow Look'd out in grandeur o'er a pathless wild, And waters whiten'd by no daring sail; While to the red man's startled eye, thy pomp Was as a dream of terror. Now thou stand'st In faded majesty, as if to mourn The desolation of a lordly race, Or like a faithful vassal share their grave. Farewell! Farewell! A loftier dome may rise, And prouder columns blot thy time-stain'd walls From the slight memory of a passing age. Yet some there are, who deem thy mouldering stones Dearer than sculpture's boast, to whose fond eye Thy silent shades, and arbours darkly wreath'd, And moon-lit walks, are peopled with the throngs Of lost affection; for whom Memory's spell, 