Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/52

52  That wound hath quell'd The last pulsation of a mighty heart, And weeping thousands wail o'er slaughter'd Saul.

 

The friend who taught my infant tongue Its broken utterance to combine, Who bending o'er my slumbers sung Her cradle-hymn with smile benign, Who in my childish sports would share The gayest laugh, the wildest glee, And in my hour of youthful care Dispel its sadness,—where is she?—

The morning o'er the gilded grove Bright on the kindling landscape fell, I sought her where she oft did rove In want and sorrow's lonely cell;— I sought her in the hallow'd dome Where sabbath bells peal'd loud and clear, I sought her in her peaceful home But heard no more her welcome dear.

I sate me in her custom'd seat, But there her book unopen'd lay, Her garden breathed its fragrance sweet From thousand shrubs and flowrets gay, Her lillies pale did graceful bend, Her green vine clasp'd its favorite tree, 