Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/93

Rh

It comes! It comes!—that misty speck Which over the waters moves! It boasts nor sail, nor mast, nor deck, Yet dearer to him was that nameless wreck Than the maid to him who loves.

It bears to the warrior's nerveless arm The might of a victor's aim, Its freight is a spell whose mystic charm Shall protect the tottering sire from harm, And the ire-doom'd babe, whose life-blood warm Was to hiss in the wigwam's flame.

The eye of the king with that lightning blazed Which the soul in its rapture sends; His prayer to the Spirit of Good he raised And the shades of his buried Fathers praised As toward his fort he wends.

That king hath gone to his lowly grave! He slumbers in dark decay; And like the crest of the tossing wave, Like the rush of the blast from the mountain cave, Like the groan of the murder'd, with none to save, His people have passed away.

The monarch hath gone, but his rocky throne Still rests on its frowning base; Its motionless guards rise in phalanx lone, And nought save the winds through their helmets that moan, And none but those bosoms and hearts of stone Sigh o'er a fallen race.