Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/60

Rh And when with toil his head declines, And at his western gate his crimson banner shines, Thou thought'st some conflagrated city drank The lightning of his ire, and into ashes shrank. Thou could'st not hear the sound From the moss-sprinkled ground, Where every tender leaflet tells the whispering gale He is my sire; From lowly vale Up to his throne of fire Each timid bud that blows, The humblest violet and the palest rose Fondly left the grateful eye, Glittering with dewy tears, or bright with rainbow die. Thou knew'st not that the drooping plant revives At his paternal smile, and in his mercy lives, Nor that the earth, her vernal warmth restored, Blossoms at his embrace, and hails her genial lord.

Thou with the sparkling stars did'st converse hold, Which to thy wondering sight, Were as gay creatures form'd of earthly mould Who revel through the sleepless night, Each holding to her sister's eye Her flambeau bright, And riding joyous through the sky On steeds of light;— Till creeping dawn like beldame grey, Dimm'd their zones, and roused the day. Being of lonely thought!—The world to thee Was a deep maze,—and all things moving on    In darkness and in mystery.—But He Who made these beauteous forms which fade anon,