Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/24

24 Congeal his soul.—Yes! life is sweet to him Who through his dungeon-grate the scanty ray Hails, though it serve him but to mark the chains Gnawing his wasted flesh.—The mariner, Buoy'd on some fragment of his broken ship, Buffets the wave.—Wherefore?—His all is lost, And the cold world is but a wreck to him, Yet his blanch'd lip above the billow sighs That life is sweet.— Ah! life is sweet to him, The most despised and isolated wretch Who holds nor tie, nor brotherhood to man. Ye cannot wrest it from the vilest brute Or noisome reptile, but they shun with cries Your purpose, or uplift their feeble shield, As best they may, to guard their dearest boon. But man, creation's idol!—he, for whom Yon skies were garnish'd, and their nightly lamps Hung out,—fair earth a nursing-mother made, And ocean chain'd,—and air surcharged with balm, If but a rude blast rend his painted sails, Down, down some gulf he hurls his bark, and shuns The port of heaven.—Yet oh,—condemn him not!— Ye cannot tell how bare the scourge may lay The soul's quick nerve,—how fierce the passions boil, How dark may be the hiding of God's face, Or what demoniac forms may seize the helm Of reason, ere with suicidal haste He leap that slippery verge, which scarce firm faith Can tread unshuddering.— God of power and might! Have pity on the feeble hearts that shrink From transient wo, and so instruct them here