Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/54

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Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, Whence are ye?—Did some white wing'd messenger On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ To the cold cradle of eternal snows? Or breathing on the callous icicles Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?— —Tree nor shrub Dare that drear atmosphere,—no polar pine Uprears a veteran front,—yet there ye stand. Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribb'd ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who panting toils O'er slippery steeps, or trembling treads the verge Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge Is to Eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness Fearless, yet frail, and clasping his chill hands Blesses your pencil'd beauty. Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale, And freer dreams of Heaven.