Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/157

I pluck'd a fair white Rose, and stole
    To lay it by her side,
And thought strange sleep enchain'd her soul,
    For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in wo
    And gaid a lonely prayer,
Yet, still my temples seem'd to glow
    As if that hand were there.

Years fled—and left me childhood's joy,
    Gay sports and pastimes dear,
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
    Who scorn'd the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed,
    Yet, ere at night I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
    And down I fell and wept.

Youth came—the props of Virtue reel'd!—
    But oft at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congeal'd—
    Blest Mother!—was it thine?—

In foreign lands I travell'd wide,
    My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
    And pleasure lured my eye;—

Yet, still that hand, so soft and cold,
    Maintain'd its mystic sway,
As when amid my curls of gold
    With gentle force it lay.