Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/195

Though in a wine-cup's narrower round his soul
Dissolving sank. Stern Carthage too was proud
Of old Hamilcar's son, when from the height
Of Alpine cliffs, with vengeful eye she scann'd
Her haughty rival. Rome beset the heavens,
Even while her veins were bursting, with the shout
Of "Io Cæsar!"—On red Sweden's sky
A meteor glared, till dire Pultowa quench'd
The wild-fire flame. France trembled as she took
Her idol on her shoulders, and compell'd
Tribute from mightier climes, but the cold blast
That swept Siberian pines breathed o'er his brow,
Proving he was but clay.—
                                        —Behold they died!
Those demigods of earth,—and left their fame
To ravaged realms, and slaughter'd hecatombs,
And widow's tears. But in this western world
Which nature in her bosom long conceal'd,
As her last, precious gem, a band arose
Of nobler heroes. They, no conquest sought,
No throne usurp'd, nor vassal homage claim'd,
But bade the sceptre, and the crowned head
Bow to the righteous cause. Time laid his hand
Upon their silver'd brows, and summon'd all
Save one, who in the dignity of age
Linger'd amid the blessings they had wrought,
Crown'd by a nation's thanks.—
                                              —To honour's tomb
He saw his brethren gather'd, one by one,
Yet found they might not die.
                                                Amid the haunts
Of industry, who o'er his harvest sings,