Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/45

Alike on every wretch distrest
    Their dew of mercy falls,
And many a traveller's soul hath blest
    St. Bernard's holy walls.

Thus nurtured by the men of heaven,
    This idol of their care
To every hallow'd work was given,
    Of pity or of prayer.—

When from the glacier's gulfs profound,
    The wreck of life was drawn,
Or broke beneath some snowy mound
    The sleep of death forlorn;

The arts to sooth such pangs severe
    Those little hands would ply;
And sometimes as he toil'd, a tear
    Swam in his lucid eye.

Fair boy!—what woes thy bosom stir,
    Thus on thy bended knee?—
Say,—dost thou shed those tears for her
    Who gave her life for thee?

Oft too, at vesper's holy call,
    When day's departing beam
Pour'd lingering o'er the statued wall
    A rich and radiant stream.

His blue eye beam'd with such a ray
    Of pure and saintlike joy,
The monks would cross themselves and say,
    That angels loved the boy.