Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/203

Where oft we roved,—now sad and lone I stray,
Or hang enamour'd o'er the page sublime
Of lofty bard,—or at dim twilight think
Of life's uncertainty,—or waking, muse,
Blending sweet visions with the thought of thee,
Is it thy sigh, that through still midnight breathes
"Rise!—sister spirit?”
                                   —At yon humble stone
Sure I should pause, with reverence justly due
To him who sleeps beneath.—I knew him well;
The patient teacher of our infant years.—
The terror of his frown hath driven the blood
From many a truant's cheek,—while his keen eye
Darting like lightning to the false one's soul,
Uprooted guilt.—The pale delinquent stood
Trembling before him,—if the appointed task
Were unfulfill'd;—nor could the rust of sloth,
Corroding intellect with baleful spot,
Long bear the atmosphere, his dreaded wrath
Kindled around it.—But he lived in days
Ere Nature's strong affinity to good
Had been discover'd,—and ere Wisdom chose
That more convenient rule,—to train the child
Not where he should,—but where he wills to go.
—I loved that man of science,—for his voice
Was gentle to the youth who careful sought
To stamp upon his fleeting hours, the trace
Of knowledge and of truth.—I loved him more
For his high sway,—which banish'd from his realm
The traitor passions,—and the guileful arts.
Him Education honour'd as her priest,
To offer on her altar fragrant fruits