Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/99

Rh  Is Man, to boast him of his zephyr's breath, Man, whose whole race of life is on the verge of death! He,—He alone, who trod The waters as their God, And from their dark embrace rescued the sinking form, Can, when the whelming surges roll, Draw with pierced hand, the unbodied soul To that Eternal Ark, serene above the storm.

 

Sleep on, in shadowy rest, bold, beauteous lake!— Sleep calmly on, as if thou ne'er hadst drank The richest blood of Carthage and of Rome.— Dream on beneath Cortona's sheltering hills, And lend thy freshness to the olive groves Which bending kiss thy brow,—as if thy care To nurse the plant of peace, might deftly hide From nature's all-pervading eye, the stain Of thy blood-guiltiness.—But she who rests Her tablet on the wing of time, and flies With him o'er every region of the earth, Hath written of thee with her diamond pen, And told thy secret to each passing age.— —Shrank not thy placid waters from the plunge Of Hannibal's plumed helmet, when he sought To slake his battle-thirst? He heeded not The awful redness of thy breast,—but drank Free, as he pour'd that day, the priceless blood Of shuddering Italy.—Rememberest thou 