Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/204

Matured by labour;—for he never sought
To hoodwink discipline,—and lure the mind
With false indulgence from that toil severe
By which great men are great.—
                                         —This little mound,
With velvet turf besprent, were better gemm'd
With snow-drops white.—A beauteous infant sleeps
Here with its mother.—O'er its soft blue eye
And o'er the slumber of its parted lips
Rose-tinted,—such a holy smile would steal
As seem'd not of earth's prompting.—Said it not
That the bright treasure in that chrystal vase
Should soon be claim'd of God?—
                                         —And is it so!—
That to my place of birth, where every germ
Of hope was planted, I may never come
But grief chastise the joy?—When last the morn
Spread forth her purple robe, I sought a friend
Who on my childhood and my youth would smile
With affable regard, cheering a heart
That often sigh'd in loneliness.—Fair plants
Still deck'd her garden,—but she was not there
To nurse their sweets.—Her well known mansion rose
In wonted hospitality,—but she
Welcomed me not.—They pointed to the tomb,
And bade me seek her there.
                                            —And does thy head
Rest with the ancient of thy noble house
Immured in silence?—Many a tear will fall
Bearing the answer from the sons of need,
Whom hungry, thou hast fed,—uncover'd, clothed,—
And sorrowing, comforted.