Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/66

66 

Sweet Hope! we bless thy gentle aid To earth and sorrow given;— But Memory! dear, immortal maid, Thy worth is known in heaven.

 

Fled was the blaze of summer. Autumn's breath Had scarcely curl'd the leaf, that o'er the tide Of silver Isis hung. Up through the mass Of woven foliage gleam'd the holy spires, The dim, monastic turrets,—stately towers, And classic domes, where throned Science points Back through the incumbent cloud of buried years To Alfred's boasted name. But a rude throng Come gathering o'er this scenery, to throw A blot upon its purity and peace.— Dark brows are there,—and blood-shot fiery eyes, And preparations dire, as for some scene Of ignominious death; while all around The sparkling waters, and serener skies, And shadow of umbrageous elms, allured The soul to mercy, and to musing thought. —But man heeds not, though pitying nature smile, And in her holiness and beauty seem As if she knelt, and breathed upon his heart, To win him from his purpose. —Through the crowd Triumphant led, moves on a noble form, Majestic of demeanor, and array'd In sacerdotal robe. 