Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/75

Rh What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart, What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, Their distant, dear ones?— Long, with straining eye They watch the lessening speck.—Heard ye no shriek Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness Sank down into their bosoms?—No! they turn Back to their dreary, famish'd huts, and pray!— Pray,—and the ills that haunt this transient life Fade into air.—Up in each girded breast There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,— A loftiness,—to face a world in arms,— To strip the pomp from sceptres,—and to lay Upon the sacred altar, the warm blood Of slain affections, when they rise between The soul and God.— —And can ye deem it strange That from their planting such a branch should bloom As nations envy?—Would a germ embalm'd With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew Upon the winds, to reap the winds again? Hid by its veil of waters, from the hand Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth In giant strength.— —Its early clusters crush'd In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host A draught of deadly wine.Oh! ye who boast In your free veins the blood of sires like these, Lose not their lineaments.—Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart,—or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core