Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/60

            And when with toil his head declines,
And at his western gate his crimson banner shines,
Thou thought'st some conflagrated city drank
The lightning of his ire, and into ashes shrank.
                Thou could'st not hear the sound
                From the moss-sprinkled ground,
    Where every tender leaflet tells the whispering gale
                        He is my sire;
                    From lowly vale
                        Up to his throne of fire
                    Each timid bud that blows,
                The humblest violet and the palest rose
                    Fondly left the grateful eye,
    Glittering with dewy tears, or bright with rainbow die.
Thou knew'st not that the drooping plant revives
At his paternal smile, and in his mercy lives,
Nor that the earth, her vernal warmth restored,
Blossoms at his embrace, and hails her genial lord.

Thou with the sparkling stars did'st converse hold,
            Which to thy wondering sight,
        Were as gay creatures form'd of earthly mould
            Who revel through the sleepless night,
                Each holding to her sister's eye
                    Her flambeau bright,
                And riding joyous through the sky
                    On steeds of light;—
                Till creeping dawn like beldame grey,
                    Dimm'd their zones, and roused the day.
Being of lonely thought!—The world to thee
        Was a deep maze,—and all things moving on
    In darkness and in mystery.—But He
        Who made these beauteous forms which fade anon,