Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/224

Oh no!—with meek, contented mind,
    The needle's humble task to ply
At the full board her place to find,
    Or close in sleep the placid eye,

With Order's unobtrusive charm
    Her simple wardrobe to dispose,
To press of guiding care the arm,
    And rove where Autumn's bounty flows,

With Touch so exquisitely true,
    That Vision stands astonish'd by,
To recognise with ardor due
    Some friend or benefactor nigh,

Her hand mid childhood's curls to place,
    From fragrant buds the breath to steal,
Of stranger-guest the brow to trace,
    Are pleasures left for her to feel.

And often o'er her hour of thought,
    Will burst a laugh of wildest glee,
As if the living forms she caught
    On wit's fantastic drapery,

As if at length, relenting skies
    In pity to her doom severe,
Had bade a mimic morning rise,
    The chaos of the soul to cheer.

But who, with energy divine,
    May tread that undiscover'd maze,
Where Nature, in her curtain'd shrine,
    The strange and new-born Thought arrays?