In foreign climes the yoke I bore,
Stern Slavery's lot I knew,
Heaven heard: and toward my native shore,
My parents' home, I drew.
Where was my hoary sire? They told
How soon his race was run,
And how he sought his pillow cold,
Lamenting for his son.
Shuddering I turned me toward the cot,
Which in my crime I left,
There was my widowed mother's lot
Of sight and joy bereft.
But who was bending o'er her bed,
With voice like pity's dove?
Those were the eyes whose glance I fled—
That was my own true love.
The thraldom of my sin was broke,
I knelt me by her side,
The priest the hallowed words hath spoke,
And blest her as my bride.
My step, my blinded mother hails,
I toil with spirit free,
And only in my fireside tales
Recal the treacherous sea.
Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/194
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THE DISOBEDIENT SON.
193