Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/59

    Her, the stern savage marks serene,
    Chequering his clay-built cabin scene,—
            Her, the polar natives bless,
            Bowing low in gentleness
To bathe in liquid beam their rayless night,
    Her, the lone sailor, while his watch he keeps,
    Hails, as her fair lamp gilds the troubled deeps,
Cresting each snowy wave that o'er its fellow sweeps;
            Even the lost maniac loves her light,
            Murmuring to her with fixed eye
            Wild symphonies he knows not why.—
                Sad was thy fate, my child, to see
In nature's gentlest friend, a foe severe to thee.

        Seem'd she with keen intent,
        And glance too rudely bent,
                Thy secret wo to spy?—
        Haunting thy hermit path
For what thou fain would'st hide from every eye,
        Thy bosom's burden and thy Maker's wrath?—
                The ear in durance bound,—
                The lip divorced from sound,
    Seem'd to thy innocent mind, a cause of blame,
            A strange, peculiar, deprecated shame;
    Nature's unkindness, thou didst meekly deem
Thy blemish and thy crime, which marr'd thy peaceful dream.
        To thee, the sun was as a warrior bold,
            Terrific, pitiless, of sway severe,
        With fiery armour, and a car of gold,
            Tyrant of this lower sphere.—