MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.
145
His aged mother bending low
With poverty and care,
Sent forth a feeble wail of woe,—
Where was the soothing prayer?
They bare him through his cultured land,
They halted not to weep;
That corn was planted by his hand,
Who shall its harvest reap?
On, on, beneath his favorite trees
That coffin'd corpse they bear,
A sighing sound was on the breeze,
But still no voice of prayer.
Where his own plough had broke the soil,
A narrow grave was made,
And 'mid the trophies of his toil
The Emigrant they laid;
But none the balm of Heaven to shed,
With priestly power was there,
No hallow'd lip above the dead
To lift the voice of prayer.
